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

imagine,” continued Stoutenburg, “that he hath tried to palliate his own villainies by telling you that he was merely a paid agent in that abominable outrage.”

“I do not think,” she retorted still quite coldly, “that this⁠ ⁠… this⁠ ⁠… person told me that he was being paid for that ugly deed: though when I did accuse him of it he did not deny it.”

“Do you hear, fellow?” asked Stoutenburg, turning sharply to Diogenes, “it is time that all this lying should cease. By your calumnies and evil insinuations you have added to the load of crimes which already have earned for you exemplary punishment; by those same lies you have caused the jongejuffrouw an infinity of pain, over and above the horror which she has endured through your cowardly attack upon her. Therefore I have thought it best to send for you now so that in her exalted presence at least you may desist from further lying and that you may be shamed into acknowledging the truth. Do you hear, fellow?” he reiterated more harshly as Diogenes stood there, seemingly not even hearing what the Lord of Stoutenburg said, for his eyes in which a quaint light of humour danced were fixed upon Gilda’s hands that lay clasped upon her lap.

The look in the man’s face, the soft pallor on the girl’s cheek, exasperated Stoutenburg’s jealous temper beyond his power of control.

“Do you hear?” he shouted once more, and with a sudden grip of the hand he pulled the prisoner roughly round by the shoulder. That shoulder had been torn open with a blow dealt by a massive steel blade which had lacerated it to the bone; even a philosopher’s endurance was not proof against this sudden rending of an already painful wound. Diogenes’ pale face became the colour of lead: the tiny room began dancing an irresponsive saraband before his eyes, he felt himself swaying, for the ground was giving way under him, when a cry, gentle and compassionate, reached his fading senses, and a perfume of exquisite sweetness came to his nostrils, even as his pinioned arms felt just enough support to enable him to steady himself.

“Gilda,” broke in Stoutenburg’s harsh voice upon this intangible dream, “I entreat you not to demean yourself by ministering to that rogue.”

“My poor ministry was for a wounded man, my lord,” she retorted curtly.

Then she turned once more to the prisoner.

“You are hurt, sir,” she asked as she let her tender blue eyes rest with kind pity upon him.

“Hurt, mejuffrouw?” he replied with a laugh, which despite himself had but little merriment in it. “Ask his Magnificence there, he will tell you that such knaves as I have bones and sinews as tough as their skins. Of a truth I am not hurt, mejuffrouw⁠ ⁠… only overcome with the humour of this situation. The Lord of Stoutenburg indignant and reproachful at thought that another man is proficient in the art of lying.”

“By heaven,” cried Stoutenburg who was white with fury. “Insolent varlet, take⁠ ⁠…”

He had seized the first object that lay close to his hand, the heavy iron tool used for raking the fire out of the huge earthenware stove; this he raised above his head; the lust to kill glowed out of his eyes, which had become bloodshot, whilst a thin red foam gathered at the corners of his mouth. The next moment the life of a philosopher and weaver of dreams would have been very abruptly ended, had not a woman’s feeble hand held up the crashing blow.

“Hatred, my lord, an you will,” said Gilda with perfect sangfroid as she stood between the man who had so deeply wronged her and the upraised arm of his deadly enemy, “hatred and fair fight, but not outrage, I pray you.”

Stoutenburg, smothering a curse, threw the weapon away from him: it fell with a terrific crash upon the wooden floor. Gilda, white and trembling now after the agonizing excitement of the past awful moment, had sunk half-swooning back against a chair. Stoutenburg fell on one knee and humbly raised her gown to his lips.

“Your pardon, Madonna,” he whispered, “the sight of your exquisite hands in contact with that infamous blackguard made me mad. I was almost ready to cheat the gallows of their prey. I gratefully thank you in that you saved me from the indignity of staining my hand with a vile creature’s blood.”

Quietly and dispassionately Gilda drew her skirts away from him.

“An you have recovered your temper, my lord,” she said coldly, “I pray you ask the prisoner those questions which you desired to put to him. I am satisfied that he is your enemy, and if he were not bound, pinioned and wounded he would probably not have need of a woman’s hand to protect him.”

Stoutenburg rose to his feet. He was angered with himself for allowing his hatred and his rage to get the better of his prudence, and tried to atone for his exhibition of incontinent rage by a great show of dignity and of reserve.

“I must ask you again, fellow⁠—and for the last time,” he said slowly turning once more to Diogenes, “if you have realized how infamous have been your insinuations against mine honour, and that of others whom the jongejuffrouw holds in high regard? Your calumnies have caused her infinite sorrow more bitter for her to bear than the dastardly crime which you did commit against her person. Have you realized this, and are you prepared to make amends for your crime and to mitigate somewhat the grave punishment which you have deserved by speaking the plain truth before the jongejuffrouw now?”

“And what plain truth doth the jongejuffrouw desire to hear?” asked Diogenes with equal calm.

Stoutenburg would have replied, but Gilda broke in quietly:

“Your crime against me, sir, I would readily forgive, had I but the assurance that no one in whom I trusted, no one whom I loved had a hand in instigating it.”

The ghost of