The Laughing Cavalier - Baroness Orczy (chapter books to read to 5 year olds .txt) 📗

guilders if he keeps her safely as a prisoner of war, not even to be let out on parole. Ben Isaje would not betray me. He is too shrewd for that.”

“That may be true of Ben Isaje himself; but what of his wife? his sons or daughters if he have any? his serving wenches, his apprentices and his men? How do you know that they are not amenable to promises of heavy bribes?”

“But even then⁠ ⁠…”

“Do you not think that at Rotterdam everyone by now knows the Prince’s movements? He passed within half a league of the town yesterday; there is not a serving wench in that city at this moment who does not know that Maurice of Nassau slept at Delft last night and will start northwards tomorrow.”

“And what of that?” queried Beresteyn, trying to keep up a semblance of that carelessness which he was far from feeling now.

“Do you believe then that Gilda will stay quietly in the house of Ben Isaje, knowing that the Prince is within four leagues of her door?⁠ ⁠… knowing that he will start northwards tomorrow⁠ ⁠… knowing that my headquarters are here⁠—close to Ryswyk⁠ ⁠… knowing in fact all that she knows?”

“I had not thought on all that,” murmured Beresteyn under his breath.

“And there is another danger too, friend, greater perhaps than any other,” continued Stoutenburg vehemently.

“Good G‑d, Stoutenburg, what do you mean?”

“That cursed foreign adventurer⁠—”

“What about him?”

“Have you then never thought of him as being amenable to a bribe from Gilda.”

“In Heaven’s name, man, do not think of such awful eventualities!”

“But we must think of them, my good Beresteyn. Events are shaping themselves differently to what we expected. We must make preparations for our safety accordingly, and above all realise the fact that Gilda will move heaven and earth to thwart us in our plans.”

“But she can do nothing,” persisted Beresteyn sullenly, “without betraying me. In Haarlem it was different. She might have spoken to my father of what she knew, but she would not do so to a stranger, knowing that with one word she can send me first and all of you afterwards to the scaffold.”

Stoutenburg with an exclamation of angry impatience brought his clenched fist crashing down upon the table.

“Are you a child, Beresteyn,” he cried hotly, “or are you wilfully blind to your danger and to mine? I tell you that Gilda will never allow me to kill the Prince of Orange without raising a finger to save him.”

“But what can I do?”

“Send for Gilda at once, tonight,” urged Stoutenburg, “convey her under escort hither⁠ ⁠… in all deference⁠ ⁠… in all honour⁠ ⁠… she would be here under her brother’s care.”

“A woman in this place at such a moment,” cried Beresteyn; “you are mad, Stoutenburg.”

“I shall go mad if she is not here,” rejoined the other more calmly, “the fear has entered into my soul, Nicolaes, that Gilda will yet betray us at the eleventh hour. That fear is an obsession⁠ ⁠… call it premonition if you will, but it unmans me, friend.”

Beresteyn was silent now. He drew his cloak closer round his shoulders, for suddenly he felt a chill which seemed to have crept into his bones.

“But it is unpractical, man,” he persisted with a kind of sullen despair. “Gilda and another woman here⁠ ⁠… tomorrow⁠ ⁠… when not half a league away.⁠ ⁠…”

“Justice will be meted out to a tyrant and an assassin,” broke in Stoutenburg quietly. “Gilda is not a woman as other women are, though in her soul now she may be shrinking at the thought of this summary justice, she will be strong and brave when the hour comes. In any case,” he added roughly, “we can keep her closely guarded, and in the miller’s hut, with the miller and his wife to look after her, she will be as safe and as comfortable as circumstances will allow. We should have her then under our own eyes and know that she cannot betray us.”

As usual Beresteyn was already yielding to the stronger will, the more powerful personality of his friend. His association with Stoutenburg had gradually blunted his finer feelings; like a fly that is entangled in the web of a spider, he tried to fight against the network of intrigue and of cowardice which hemmed him in more and more closely with every step that he took along the path of crime. He was filled with remorse at thought of the wrong which he had done to Gilda, but he was no longer his own master. He was being carried away by the tide of intrigue and by the fear of discovery, away from his better self.

“You should have thought on all that sooner, Stoutenburg,” he said in final, feeble protest, “we need never have sent Gilda to Rotterdam in the company of a foreign adventurer of whom we knew nothing.”

“At the time it seemed simple enough,” quoth Stoutenburg impatiently, “you suggested the house of Ben Isaje the banker and it seemed an excellent plan. I did not think of distance then, and it is only since we arrived at Ryswyk that I realized how near all these places are to one another, and how easy it would be for Gilda to betray us even now.”

Beresteyn was silent after that. It was easy to see that his friend’s restless anxiety was eating into his own soul. Stoutenburg watched him with those hollow glowing eyes of his that seemed to send a magnetic current of strong willpower into the weaker vessel.

“Well! perhaps you are right,” said Beresteyn at last, “perhaps you are right. After all,” he added half to himself, “perhaps I shall feel easier in my conscience when I have Gilda near me and feel that I can at least watch over her.”

Stoutenburg, having gained his point, jumped to his feet and drew a deep breath of satisfaction.

“That’s bravely said,” he exclaimed. “Will you go yourself at once to Rotterdam? with two or three of our most trusted men you could bring Gilda here with absolute safety; you only need to