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

enemy, when he himself was so utterly helpless and abject?

Not long was the Lord of Stoutenburg left in suspense. Even whilst he gazed down upon the merry, excited throng, he was able to distinguish in the midst of them all a pair of broad shoulders that could only belong to one man. The soldiers, laughing, thoroughly enjoying the frolic, were jostling him not a little for the sheer pleasure of measuring their valour against so hefty a fellow. And he, despite his blindness, gave as good as he got; fought valiantly with fist and boot and gave his tormentors many a hard knock, until, with a loud shout of glee, some of the men succeeded in seizing hold of him, and hoisted him up on their shoulders and brought him into the circle of light formed by the resin torches.

A double cry came in response⁠—one of amazement from Stoutenburg and one of horror from Nicolaes. But neither of them spoke. Stoutenburg’s lips were tightly set; a puzzled frown appeared between his brows. In truth, for once in the course of his devilish career, he was completely taken aback and uncertain what to do. The man whom he saw there before him, in ragged clothes, unshaved and grimy, blinking with sightless eyes, was the man whom he detested above every other thing or creature on earth⁠—the reckless soldier of fortune of the past, for awhile the proud and successful rival; now just a wreck of humanity, broken, ay, and degraded, and henceforth an object of pity rather than a menace to his rival’s plans. His doublet was in rags, his plumed hat battered, his toes shone through the holes in his boots. The upper part of his face was swathed in a soiled linen bandage. This had, no doubt, been originally intended to shield the stricken eyes; but it had slipped, and those same eyes, with their horrible fixed look, glittered with unearthly weirdness in the flickering light.

“Salute his Magnificence, the lord and master of Amersfoort and of all that in it lies!” one of the soldiers shouted gaily.

And the blind man forthwith made a gesture of obeisance swept with a wide flourish his battered plumed hat from off his head.

“To his Magnificence!” he called out in response. “Though mine eyes cannot see him, my voice is raised in praise of his nobility and his valour. May the recording angels give him his full deserts.”

III

The feeling of sheer horror which had caused Nicolaes to utter a sudden cry was, in truth, fully justified.

“It can’t be!” he murmured, appalled at what he saw.

Stoutenburg answered with a hoarse laugh. “Nay, by Satan and all his myrmidons it is!”

Already he was leaning out of the window, giving quick orders to the men down below to bring that drunken vagabond forthwith into his presence. After which he turned once more to his friend.

“We’ll soon see,” he said, “if it is true, or if our eyes have played us both an elusive trick. Yet, methinks,” he added thoughtfully, “that the pigwidgeon who of late hath taken my destiny in hand is apparently intent on doing me a good turn.”

“In what way?” the other asked.

“By throwing my enemy across my path,” Stoutenburg replied drily.

“You’ll hang him of course?” Nicolaes rejoined.

“Yes; I’ll hang him!” Stoutenburg retorted, with a snarl. “But I must make use of him first.”

“Make use of him? How?”

“That I do not know as yet. But inspiration will come, never you fear, my friend. All that I want is a leverage for bringing the Stadtholder to his knees and for winning Gilda’s love.”

“Then, in Heaven’s name, man,” Nicolaes rejoined earnestly, “begin by ridding yourself of the only danger-spoke in your wheel!”

“Danger-spoke?” Stoutenburg exclaimed, threw back his head and laughed. “Would you really call that miserable oaf a serious bar to mine ambition or a possible rival in your sister’s regard?”

And, with outstretched hand he pointed to the door.

There, under the lintel⁠—pushed on by Jan and two or three men who, powerfully built though they were, looked like pigmies beside the stricken giant, drunk as an owl, his hat awry above that hideous bandage, dirty, unkempt, and ragged⁠—appeared the man who had once been the brilliant inspiration of Franz Hals’ immortal Laughing Cavalier.

At sight of him Nicolaes Beresteyn gave a loud groan and collapsed into a chair; burying his face in his hand. He was ever a coward, even in villainy; and when the man whom he had once hated so bitterly, and whom his craven hand had struck in such a dastardly manner, lurched into the room, and as he fell against the table uttered an inane and bibulous laugh, his nerve completely forsook him.

At a peremptory sign from Stoutenburg, Jan closed the doors which gave on the hall; but he and two of the men remained at attention inside the room.

The blind man groped with his hands till they found a chair, into which he sank, with powerful limbs outstretched, snorting like a dog just come out of the water. With an awkward gesture he pushed his hat from off his head, and in so doing he dislodged the grimy bandage so that it sat like a scullion’s cap across his white forehead.

Stoutenburg watched him with an expression of cruel satisfaction. It is not often given to a man to have an enemy and a rival so completely in his power, and the exultation in Stoutenburg’s heart was so great that he was content to savour it in silence for awhile. Nicolaes was beyond the power of speech, and so the silence for a moment or two remained absolute.

Then the blind man suddenly sat up, craning his neck and rolling his sightless eyes.

“I wonder where the devil I am!” he murmured through set lips. He appeared to listen intently; no doubt caught the sound of life around him, for he added quickly: “Is anybody here?”

“I am here,” Stoutenburg replied curtly. “Do you know whom I am, sirrah?”

“In truth, I do