Here the three men parted; Beresteyn and Jan to go to the "Lame
Cow" where the latter was to begin his work of keeping track
of Diogenes, and Stoutenburg to find his way to the squalid lodging
house which was situate at the bottom of the Kleine Hout Straat
where it abuts on the Oude Gracht.
It had been somewhat impulsively that he had suggested to Beresteyn
that he would endeavour to obtain some information from the Spanish
wench as to Diogenes' plans and movements and the whereabouts
of Gilda, and now that he was alone with more sober thoughts he
realised that the suggestion had not been over-backed by reason.
Still as Beresteyn had said: there could be no harm in seeking
out the girl. Stoutenburg was quite satisfied in his mind
that she must be the rascal's sweetheart, else she had not lent
him an helping hand in the abduction of Gilda, and since he himself
was well supplied with money through the generosity of his rich
friends in Haarlem, he had no doubt that if the wench knew anything
at all about the rogue, she could easily be threatened first,
then bribed and cajoled into telling all that she knew.
Luck in this chose to favour the Lord of Stoutenburg, for the
girl was on the doorstep when he finally reached the house where
two nights ago a young soldier of fortune had so generously given
up his lodgings to a miserable pair of beggars. He had just
been vaguely wondering how best he could -- without endangering
his own safety -- obtain information as to which particular warren
in the house she and her father inhabited, when he saw her standing
under the lintel of the door, her meagre figure faintly lit up
by the glimmer of a street-lamp fixed in the wall just above her
head.
"I would have speech with thee," he said in his usual
peremptory manner as soon as he had approached her, "show
me the way to thy room."
Then as, like a frightened rabbit, she made ready to run away
to her burrow as quickly as she could, he seized hold of her arm
and reiterated roughly:
"I would have speech of thee, dost hear? Show me the
way to thy room at once. Thy safety and that of thy father
depend on thy obedience. There is close search in the city
just now for Spanish spies."
The girl's pale cheeks took on a more ashen hue, her lips parted
with a quickly smothered cry of terror. She knew -- as did
every stranger in these Dutch cities just now -- that the words
"Spanish spy" had a magical effect on the placid tempers
of their inhabitants, and that many a harmless foreign wayfarer
had suffered imprisonment, aye and torture too, on the mere suspicion
of being a "Spanish spy."
"I have nothing to fear," she murmured under her breath.
"Perhaps not," he rejoined, "but the man who shelters
and protects thee is under suspicion of abetting Spanish spies.
For his sake 'twere wiser if thou didst obey me."
Stoutenburg had every reason to congratulate himself on his shrewd
guess, for at his words all resistance on the girl's part vanished,
and though she began to tremble in every limb and even for a moment
seemed ready to swoon, she murmured words which if incoherent
certainly sounded submissive, and then silently led the way upstairs.
He followed her closely, stumbling behind her in the dark, and
as he mounted the ricketty steps he was rapidly rehearsing in
his mind what he would say to the wench.
That the girl was that abominable villain's sweetheart he was
not for a moment in doubt, her submission just now, at the mere
hint of the fellow's danger, showed the depth of her love for
him. Stoutenburg felt therefore that his success in obtaining
what information he wanted would depend only on how much she knew.
In any case she must be amenable to a bribe for she seemed wretchedly
poor; even in that brief glimpse which he had had of her by the
dim light of the street-door lamp, he could not help but see how
ragged was her kirtle and how pinched and wan her face.
On the landing she paused and taking a key from between the folds
of her shift she opened the door of her lodging and humbly begged
the gracious mynheer to enter. A tallow candle placed upon
a chair threw its feeble light upon the squalid abode, the white-washed
walls, the primitive bedstead in the corner made up of deal planks
and covered with a paillasse and a thin blanket. From beneath
that same blanket came the gentle and fretful moanings of the
old cripple.
But Stoutenburg was far too deeply engrossed in his own affairs
to take much note of his surroundings; as soon as the girl had
closed the door behind her, he called her roughly to him and she
-- frightened and obedient -- came forward without a word, standing
now before him, with hanging arms and bowed head, whilst a slight
shiver shook her girlish form from time to time.
He dragged a chair out to the middle of the room and sat himself
astride upon it, his arms resting across the back, his booted
and spurred feet thrust out in front of him, whilst his hollow,
purple-rimmed eyes with their feverish glow of ever-present inward
excitement were fixed upon the girl.
"I must tell thee, wench," he began abruptly, "that
I mean to be thy friend. No harm shall come to thee if thou
wilt answer truthfully certain questions which I would ask of
thee."
Then as she appeared too frightened to reply and only cast a furtive,
timorous glance on him, he continued after a slight pause:
"The man who protected thee against the
rabble the other night, and who gave thee shelter afterwards,
the man in whose bed thy crippled father lies at this moment
-- he is thy sweetheart, is he not?"
"What is that to you?" she retorted sullenly.
"Nothing in itself," he said quietly. "I
merely spoke of it to show thee how much I know. Let me
tell thee at once that I was in the tavern with him on New Year's
Eve when his boon-companions told the tale of how he had protected
thee against a crowd; and that I was in this very street not twenty
paces away when in response to thy appeal he gave up his room
and his bed to thee, and for thy sake paced the streets for several
hours in the middle of the night in weather that must have frozen
the marrow in his bones."
"Well? What of that?" said the girl simply.
"He is kind and good, and hath that pity for the poor and
homeless which would grace many a noble gentleman."
"No doubt," he retorted dryly, "but a man will
not do all that for a wench, save in expectation of adequate payment
for his trouble and discomfort."
"What is that to you?" she reiterated, with the same
sullen earnestness.
"Thou art in love with that fine gallant, eh, my girl?"
he continued with a harsh, flippant laugh, "and art not prepared
to own to it. Well! I'll not press thee for a confession.
I am quite satisfied with thine evasive answers. Let me
but tell thee this, that the man whom thou lovest is in deadly
danger of his life."
"Great God, have pity on him!" she
exclaimed involuntarily.
"In a spirit of wanton mischief -- for he is not so faithful to thee as thou wouldst wish -- he has abducted a lady from this city, as thou well knowest, since thou didst lend him thy help in the committal of this crime. Thou seest," he added roughly, "that denials on thy part were worse than useless, since I know everything. The lady's father is an important magistrate in this city, he has moved every process of the law so that he may mete out an exemplary punishment to the blackguard who has dared to filch his daughter. Hanging will be the most merciful ending to thy lover's life, but Mynheer Beresteyn talks of the rack, of quartering and of the stake, and he is a man of boundless influence in the administration of the law."
"Lord, have mercy upon us," once again murmured the
wretched girl whose cheeks now looked grey and shrunken; her lips
were white and quivering and her eyes with dilated pupils were
fixed in horror on the harbinger of this terrible news.
"He will have none on thy sweetheart, I'll warrant thee unless . . ."
He paused significantly, measuring the effect of his words and
of that dramatic pause upon, the tense sensibilities of the girl.
"Unless . . . what?" came almost as a dying murmur from
her parched throat.
"Unless thou wilt lend a hand to save him."
"I?" she exclaimed pathetically, "I would give
my hand . . . my tongue . . . my sight . . . my life to save him."
"Come!" he said, "that's brave! but it will not
be necessary to make quite so violent a sacrifice. I have
great power too in this city and great influence over the bereaved
father," he continued, lying unblushingly, "I know that
if I can restore his daughter to him within the next four and
twenty hours, I could prevail upon him to give up pursuit of the
villain who abducted her, and to let him go free."
But these words were not yet fully out of his mouth, before she
had fallen on her knees before him, clasping her thin hands together
and raising up to his hard face large, dark eyes that were brimful
of tears.
"Will you do that the, O my gracious lord," she pleaded.
"Oh! God will reward you if you will do this."
"How can I, thou crazy wench," he retorted, "how
can I restore the damsel to her sorrowing father when I do not
know where she is?"
"But --"
"It is from thee I want to hear where the lady is."
"From me?"
"Why yes! of course! Thou art in the confidence of
thy lover, and knowest where he keeps the lady hidden. Tell
me where she is, and I will pledge thee my word that thou and
he will have nothing more to fear."
"He is not my lover," she murmured dully, "nor
am I in his confidence."
She was still on her knees, but had fallen back on her heels,
with arms hanging limp and helpless by her side. Hope so
suddenly arisen had equally quickly died out of her heart, and
her pinched face expressed in every line the despair and misery
which had come in its wake.
"Come!" he cried harshly, "play no tricks with
me, wench. Thou didst own to being the rascal's sweetheart."
"I owned to my love for him," she said simply, "not
to his love for me."
"I told thee that he will hang or burn unless thou art willing
to help him."
"And I told thee, gracious sir, that I would give my life
for him."
"Which is quite unnecessary. All I want is the knowledge
of where he keeps the lady whom he has outraged."
"I cannot help you, mynheer, in that."
"Thou wilt not!"
"I cannot," she reiterated gently. "I do
not know where she is."
"Will fifty guilders help thy memory?" he sneered.
"Fifty guilders would mean ease and comfort to my father
and me for many months to come. I would do much for fifty
guilders but I cannot tell that which I do not know."
"An hundred guilders, girl, and the safety of thy lover.
Will that not tempt thee?"
"Indeed, indeed, gracious sir," she moaned piteously,
"I swear to you that I do not know."
"Thou dost perjure thyself and wilt rue it, wench,"
he exclaimed as he jumped to his feet, and with a loud curse kicked
the chair away from him.
The Lord of Stoutenburg was not a man who had been taught to curb
his temper; he had always given way to his passions, allowing
them as the years went on to master every tender feeling within
him; for years now he had sacrificed everything to them, to his
ambition, to his revenge, to his loves and hates. Now that
this fool of a girl tried to thwart him as he thought, he allowed
his fury against her full rein, to the exclusion of reason, of
prudence, or ordinary instincts of chivalry. He stooped
over her like a great, gaunt bird of prey and his thin claw-like
hand fastened itself on her thin shoulder.
"Thou liest, girl," he said hoarsely, "or art playing
with me? Money thou shalt have. Name thy price.
I'll pay the all that thou wouldst ask. I'll not believe
that thou dost not know! Think of thy lover under torture,
on the rack, burnt at the stake. Hast ever seen a man after
he has been broken on the wheel? his limbs torn from their sockets,
his chest sunken under the weights -- and the stake? hast seen
a heretic burnt alive . . .?"
She gave a loud scream of agony: her hands went up to her ears,
her eyes stared out of her head like those of one in a frenzy
of terror.
"Pity! pity! my lord, have pity! I swear that I do
not know."
"Verdomme!" he cried out in the madness of his rage
as with a cruel twist of his hand he threw the wretched girl off
her balance and sent her half-fainting, cowering on the floor.
"Verdommt be thou, plepshurk," came in a ringing voice
from behind him.
The next moment he felt as if two grapnels made of steel had fastened
themselves on his shoulders and as if a weight of irresistible
power was pressing him down, down on to his knees. His legs
shook under him, his bones seemed literally to be cracking beneath
that iron grip, and he had not the power to turn round in order
to see who his assailant was. The attack had taken him wholly
by surprise and it was only when his knees finally gave way under
him, and he too was down on the ground, licking the dust of the
floor -- as he had forced the wretched girl to do -- that he had
a moment's respite from that cruel pressure and was able to turn
in the direction whence it had come.
Diogenes, with those wide shoulders of his squared out to their
full breadth, legs apart and arms crossed over his mighty chest
was standing over him, his eyes aflame and his moustache bristling
till it stood out like the tusks of a boar.
"Dondersteen!" he exclaimed as he watched the other
man's long, lean figure thus sprawling on the ground, "this
is a pretty pass to which to bring this highly civilized and cultured
country. Men are beginning to browbeat and strike the women
now! Dondersteen!"
Stoutenburg, whose vocabulary of oaths was at least as comprehensive
as that of any foreign adventurer, had -- to its accompaniment
-- struggled at last to his feet.
"You . . ." he began as soon as he had partially recovered his breath. But Diogenes putting up his hand hastily interrupted him:
"Do not speak just now, mynheer," he said with his wonted
good-humour. "Were you to speak now, I feel that your
words would not be characterized by that dignity and courtesy
which one would expect from so noble a gentleman."
"Smeerlap! --" began Stoutenburg once more.
"There now," rejoined the other with imperturbable bonhomie,
"what did I tell you? Believe me, sir, 'tis much the
best to be silent if pleasant words fail to reach one's lips."
"A truce on this nonsense," quoth Stoutenburg hotly,
"you took me unawares -- like a coward. . . ."
"Well said, mynheer! Like a coward -- that is just
how I took you -- in the act of striking a miserable atom of humanity
-- who is as defenceless as a sparrow."
"'Tis ludicrous indeed to see a man of your calling posing
as a protector of women," retorted Stoutenburg with a sneer.
"But enough of this. You find me unarmed at this moment,
else you had already paid for this impudent interference."
"I thank you, sir," said Diogenes as he swept the Lord
of Stoutenburg a deep, ironical bow, "I thank you for thus
momentarily withholding chastisement from my unworthiness.
When may I have the honour of calling on your Magnificence in
order that you might mete unto me the punishment which I have
so amply deserved?"
"That chastisement will lose nothing by waiting, since indeed
your insolence passes belief," quoth Stoutenburg hotly.
"Now go!" he added, choosing not to notice the wilfully
impertinent attitude of the other man, "leave me alone with
this wench. My business is with her."
"So is mine, gracious lord," rejoined Diogenes with a bland smile, "else I were not here. This room is mine -- perhaps your Magnificence did not know that -- you would not like surely to remain my guest a moment longer than you need."
"Of a truth I knew that the baggage was your sweetheart --
else I had not come at all."
"Leave off insulting the girl, man," said Diogenes whose
moustache bristled again, a sure sign that his temper was on the
boil, "she has told you the truth, she knows nothing of the
whereabouts of the noble lady who has disappeared from Haarlem.
An you desire information on that point you had best get it elsewhere."
But Stoutenburg had in the meanwhile succeeded in recovering --
at any rate partially -- his presence of mind. All his life
he had been accustomed to treat these foreign adventurers with
the contempt which they deserved. In the days of John of
Barneveld's high position in the State, his sons would never have
dreamed of parleying with knaves, and if -- which God forbid!
-- one of them had dared then to lay hands on any member of the
High Advocate's family, hanging would certainly have been the
inevitable punishment of such insolence.
Something of that old haughtiness and pride of caste crept into
the attitude of the Lord of Stoutenburg now, and prudence also
suggested that he should feign to ignore the rough usage which
he had received at the hands of this contemptible rascal.
Though he was by no means unarmed -- for he never went abroad
these days without a poniard in his belt -- he had, of a truth,
no mind to engage in a brawl with this young Hercules whose profession
was that of arms and who might consequently get easily the better
of him.
He made every effort therefore to remain calm and to look as dignified
as his disordered toilet would allow.
"You heard what I said to this girl?" he queried, speaking
carelessly.
"You screamed loudly enough," replied Diogenes lightly.
"I heard you through the closed door. I confess that
I listened for quite a long while: your conversation greatly interested
me. I only interfered when I thought it necessary."
"So then I need not repeat what I said," quoth the other
lightly. "Hanging for you, my man, unless you tell
me where you have hidden Jongejuffrouw Beresteyn."
"I? What have I to do with that noble lady, pray?"
"It is futile to bandy words with me. I know every
circumstance of the disappearance of the lady, and could denounce
you to the authorities within half an hour, and see you hanged
for the outrage before sunrise."
"Then I do wonder," said Diogenes suavely, "that
your Magnificence doth not do this, for of a truth you must hate
me fairly thoroughly by now."
"Hate you, man? I'd gladly see you hang, or better
still broken on the wheel. But I must know from you first
where you have hidden the jongejuffrouw."
"If I am to hang anyway, sir, why should I trouble to tell
you?"
"The lady is my affianced wife," said Stoutenburg haughtily, "I have every right to demand an explanation from you, why you are here when by the terms of your contract with my friend Nicolaes Beresteyn you should at this moment be on your way to Rotterdam, escorting the jongejuffrouw to the house of Ben Isaje, the banker. . . . You see that I am well informed," he added impatiently, seeing that Diogenes had become suddenly silent, and that a curious shadow had spread over his persistently smiling face.
"So well informed, sir," rejoined the latter after a
slight pause, and speaking more seriously than he had done hitherto,
"so well informed that I marvel you do not know that by the
terms of that same contract I pledged my word to convey the jongejuffrouw
safely to a certain spot and with all possible speed, but that
further actions on my part were to remain for mine own guidance.
I also pledged my word of honour that I would remain silent about
all these matters."
"Bah!" broke in Stoutenburg roughly, "knaves
like you have no honour to pledge."
"No doubt, sir, you are the best judge of what a knave would
do."
"Insolent . . . do you dare . . . ?"
"If you like it better, sir, I'll say that I have parleyed
long enough with you to suit my temper. This room is mine,"
he added, speaking every whit as haughtily as did the other man.
"I have business with this wench, and came here, desirous
to speak with her alone, so I pray you go! this roof is
too lowly to shelter the Lord of Stoutenburg."
At mention of his name Stoutenburg's sunken cheeks took on the
colour of lead, and with a swift, instinctive gesture, his hand
flew to the hilt of the dagger under his doublet. During
this hot and brief quarrel with this man, the thought had never
entered his mind that his identity might be known to his antagonist,
that he -- a fugitive from justice and with a heavy price still
upon his head -- was even now at the mercy of this contemptible
adventurer whom he had learnt to hate as he had never hated a
single human soul before now.
Prudence, however, was quick enough to warn him not to betray
himself completely. The knave obviously suspected his identity
-- how he did that, Stoutenburg could not conjecture, but after
all he might only have drawn a bow at a venture: it was important
above all not to let him see that that bow had struck home.
Wherefore after the first instant of terror and surprise he resumed
as best he could his former haughty attitude, and said with well-feigned
carelessness:
"The Lord of Stoutenburg? Do you expect his visit then?
What have you to do with him? 'Tis dangerous, you know,
to court his friendship just now."
"I do not court his friendship, sir," replied Diogenes
with his gently ironical smile; "the Lord of Stoutenburg
hath many enemies these days; and, methinks, that if it came to
a question of hanging he would stand at least as good a chance
of the gallows as I."
"No doubt, an you knew how to lay hands on him; you would
be over ready to denounce him to the Stadtholder for the sake
of the blood-money which you would receive for this act."
"Well played, my lord," retorted Diogenes with a ringing
laugh. "Dondersteen! but you apparently think me a
fool as well as a knave. Lay my hands on the Lord of Stoutenburg
did you say? By St. Bavon, have I not done so already? aye!
and made him like the dust, too, at my feet? I could sell
him to the Stadtholder without further trouble -- denounce him
even now to the authorities only that I do not happen to be a
vendor of swine-flesh -- or else. . . ."
A double cry interrupted the flow of Diogenes' wrathful eloquence:
a cry of rage from Stoutenburg and one of terror from the girl,
who all this while -- not understanding the cause and purport
of the quarrel between the two men -- had been cowering in a remote
corner of the room anxious only to avoid observation, fearful
lest she should be seen.
But now she suddenly ran forward, swift as a deer, unerring as
a cat, and the next moment she had thrown herself on the upraised
arm of Stoutenburg in whose hand gleamed the sharp steel of his
dagger.
"Murder!" she cried in a frenzy of horror. "Save
thyself! he will murder thee!"
Diogenes, as was his wont, threw back his head and sent his merry
laugh echoing through the tumble-down house from floor to floor,
until, in response to that light-heartedness which had burst forth
in such a ringing laugh, pallid faces were lifted wearily from
toil, and around thin, pinched lips the reflex of a smile came
creeping over the furrows caused by starvation and misery.
"Let go his arm, wench," he cried gaily; "he'll
not hurt me, never fear. Hatred has drawn a film over his
eyes and caused his hand to tremble. Put back your poniard,
my lord," he added lightly, "the penniless adventurer
and paid hireling is unworthy of your steel. Keep it whetted
for your own defence and for the protection of the gracious lady
who has plighted her troth to you."
"Name her not, man!" cried Stoutenburg, whose arm had
dropped by his side, but whose voice was still hoarse with the
passion of hate which now consumed him.
"Is her name polluted through passing my lips? Yet
is she under my protection, placed there by those who should have
guarded her honour with their life."
"Touch my future wife but with the tips of thy fingers, plepshurk,
and I'll hang thee on the nearest tree with mine own hands."
"Wait to threaten, my lord, until you have the power: until
then go your way. I -- the miserable rascal whom you abhor,
the knave whom you despise -- do give you your life and your freedom
which, as you well know, I hold at this moment in the hollow of
my hand. But remember that I give it you only because to
my mind one innocent woman has already suffered quite enough because
of you, without having to mourn the man whom she loves and being
widowed ere she is a wife. Because of that you may go out
of this room a free man -- free to pursue your tortuous aims and
your ambitious scheme. They are naught to me and I know
nothing about them. But this I do know -- that a woman has
been placed in my charge by one who should deem her honour more
sacred than his own; in this infamy I now see that you too, my
lord, have a hand. The lady, you say, is your future wife,
yet you placed her under my care -- a knave, a rascal -- miserable
plepshurk was the last epithet which you applied to me -- you!
who also should have guarded her good name with your very life.
To suit your own ends, you entrusted her to me! Well! to
suit mine own I'll not let you approach her, until -- having accomplished
the errand for which I am being paid -- I will myself escort the
lady back to her father. To this am I also pledged!
and both these pledges do I mean to fulfil and you, my lord, do
but waste your time in arguing with me."
The Lord of Stoutenburg had not attempted to interrupt Diogenes
in his long peroration. All the thoughts of hatred and revenge
that sprang in his mind with every word which this man uttered,
he apparently thought wisest to conceal for the moment.
Now that Diogenes, after he had finished speaking, turned unceremoniously
on his heel and left Stoutenburg standing in the middle of the
room, the latter hesitated for a few minutes longer. Angry
and contemptuous words were all ready to his lips, but Diogenes
was paying no heed to him; he had drawn the girl with him to the
bedside of the cripple, and there began talking quietly in whispers
to her. Stoutenburg saw that he gave the wench some money.
Smothering a final, comprehensive oath the noble lord went quietly
out of the room.
"How that man doth hate thee," whispered the girl in
awe-struck tones, as soon as she saw that the door had closed
behind him. "And I hate him too," she added, as
she clenched her thin hands, "he is cruel, coarse and evil."
"Cruel, coarse and evil?" said Diogenes with a shrug
of his wide shoulders, "and yet there is a delicate, innocent
girl who loves him well enough to forget all his crimes and to
plight her troth to him. Women are strange creatures, wench
-- 'tis a wise philosopher who steers widely clear of their path."