The First Sir Percy, Baroness Orczy [most important books to read TXT] 📗

glowering and defiant, his hands tied behind his back with a length of rope, against which he was straining with all his might.

One of the most disloyal pitfalls ever devised against an unsuspecting civilian⁠—and he the chief dignitary of a peace-loving city. Stoutenburg watched the scene with an evil glitter in his restless eyes. Shame and compunction did, in truth, bear no part in his emotions at this moment. He was exulting in the thought of his vile stratagem, pleased that he had thought of enticing Gilda hither by summoning her father at the same time. It was amusing to watch them both⁠—the burgomaster still dignified, despite his helplessness, and Gilda beautiful in her indignation. By St. Bavon, the girl was lovely, and still desirable. And thank Beelzebub and all the powers of darkness who lent their aid in placing so exquisite a prize in the hands of the conqueror.

Stoutenburg could have laughed aloud with glee. As it was, he made an effort to appear both masterful and indifferent. He knew that he could take his time, that any scheme which he might formulate for his own advancement and the satisfaction of his every ambition was now certain of success. The future was entirely his, to plan and mould at will.

So now he deliberately turned back to the window, closed it with a hand that had not the slightest tremor in it. Then he returned to the centre of the room, sat down beside the table, and took on a cool and judicial air. All his movements were consciously slow. He looked at the burgomaster and at Gilda with ostentatious irony, remained silent for awhile as if in pleasant contemplation of their helplessness. “You are in suspense,” his silence seemed to express. “You know that your fate is in my hands. But I can afford to wait, to take mine ease. I am lord of the future, and you are little better than my slaves.”

“Was it not foolishness to resist, mynheer?” he said at last, in a tone of gentle mockery. “Bloodshed, eh? In truth, the role of fire-eater ill becomes your dignity and your years.”

“Spare me your insults, my lord,” Beresteyn retorted, with calm dignity. “What is your pleasure with my daughter and with me?”

“I will tell you anon,” Stoutenburg replied coolly, “when you are more composed.”

“I am ready now to hear your commands.”

“Quite submissive, eh?” the other retorted with a sneer.

“No; only helpless, and justly indignant at this abominable outrage.”

“Also surprised⁠—what?⁠—at seeing me here tonight?”

“In truth, my lord, I had not expected to see the son of Olden Barneveldt at the head of enemy troops.”

“Or your son in his train, eh?”

The burgomaster winced at the taunt. But he rejoined quite simply:

“If what rumour says is true, my lord, then I have no son.”

“If,” Stoutenburg retorted dryly, “rumour told you that Nicolaes Beresteyn hath returned to his allegiance, then the jade did not lie. Your son, mynheer, hath shown you which way loyalty lies. Not in the service of a rebel prince, but in that of Archduchess Isabella, our Sovereign Liege.”

He paused, as if expecting some word of reply from the burgomaster; but as the latter remained silent, he went on more lightly:

“But enough of this. Whether you, Mynheer Beresteyn, and your son do make up your differences presently is no concern of mine. You will see him anon, no doubt, and can then discuss your family affairs at your leisure. For the nonce, I do desire to know whether your city intends to be submissive. I have exercised great leniency up to this hour; but you must remember that I am equally ready to punish at the slightest sign of contumely or of resistance to my commands.”

“For the leniency to which the Lord of Stoutenburg lays claim,” Beresteyn rejoined with perfect dignity, “in that, up to this hour he has not murdered our peaceful citizens, burned down our houses, or violated our homes, we tender him our thanks. As for the future, the treacherous pitfall into which I have fallen, and the unwarrantable treatment that is meted out to me, will mayhap prove to my unfortunate fellow-citizens that resistance to overwhelming force is worse than useless.”

“Excellent sentiments, mynheer!” Stoutenburg retorted. “Dictated, I make no doubt, by one who knows the usages of war.”

“We do all of us,” the burgomaster gave quiet answer, “obey the behests of our Stadtholder, our Sovereign Liege.”

“The rebel prince, mynheer, who, by commanding you to submit, hath for once gauged rightly the temper of the Sovereign whom he hath outraged. Will you tell me, I pray you,” Stoutenburg added, with a sardonic grin, “whether the jongejuffrouw your daughter is equally prepared to obey Maurice of Nassau’s behests and submit to my commands?”

At this cruel thrust an almost imperceptible change came over the burgomaster’s calm, dignified countenance; and even this change was scarce noticeable in the uncertain, flickering light of the wax candles. Perhaps he had realized, for the first time, the full horror of his position, the full treachery of the snare which had been laid for him, and which left him, pinioned and helpless, at the mercy of an unscrupulous and cowardly enemy. Not only him, but also his daughter.

A groan like that of a wounded beast escaped his lips, and his powerful arms and shoulders strained at the cords that fettered him. Nevertheless, after a very brief moment of silence he rejoined with perfect outward calm:

“My daughter, my lord, was under my protection until vile treachery rendered me helpless. Now that her father can no longer watch over her, she is under the protection of every man of honour.”

“That is excellently said, mynheer,” Stoutenburg replied. “And in a few words you have put the whole situation tersely and clearly. You have orders from the Stadtholder to obey my commands; therefore I do but make matters easier for you by having you removed to your apartments, instead of merely commanding you to return thither⁠—an order which, if you were free, you might