The Laughing Cavalier by Baroness Orczy (best 7 inch ereader .TXT) 📕

have you to dictate to me?” said Beresteyn sullenly. “I have no account to give to you of mine own actions.”

“None I admit,” rejoined the philosopher placidly, “but let me put the situation a little more clearly before you. On the one hand you must own that I could at this moment with very little trouble and hardly any scruples render you physically helpless first, then lock you up in this room, and go and join my friends outside. On the other hand you could leave this room sound in body and at heart an honest man, jump into the sledge beside your sister and convey her yourself safely back to the home from whence you⁠—her own brother⁠—should never have allowed her to be taken.”

“I cannot do it,” retorted Beresteyn moodily, “I could not meet my father face to face after what has happened.”

“Think you Gilda would tell him that his only son has played the part of traitor?”

“She loathes and despises me.”

“She has a horror of that treacherous plot. But the plot has come to naught; and she will consider that you are punished enough for it already, and feel happy that you are free from Stoutenburg’s clutches.”

“I cannot leave Stoutenburg now, and she must go with him. She hates me for the outrage which was committed against her.”

“She does not know your share in it,” said Diogenes quickly, “have I not told you that I lied admirably? She believes me to be the only culprit and to have forged your name to hide mine own infamy.”

A hot flush rose to Beresteyn’s pale cheeks.

“I cannot bear to profit by your generosity,” he said dully.

“Pshaw man!” rejoined the other not without a tone of bitterness, “what matters what my reputation is in her sight? She despises me so utterly already that a few sins more or less cannot lower me further in her sight.”

“No! no! I cannot do it,” persisted Beresteyn. “Go to your friends, man,” he added fiercely, “the fat one is getting sorely pressed, the other cannot cope with the horses much longer! go to their aid! and kill me if you are so minded. Indeed I no longer care, and in any case I could not survive all this shame.”

“Die by all means when and where you list,” said Diogenes placidly, “but ’tis your place first of all to take your sister now under your own protection, to keep her in the knowledge that whatever sins you may have committed you were at least true and loyal to herself. By Heaven man, hath she not suffered enough already in her person, in her pride, above all in her affections? Your loyalty to her at this moment would be ample compensation for all that she hath suffered. Be an honest man and take her to her home.”

“How can I? I have no home: and she is a menace to us all⁠ ⁠…”

“I am a menace to you, you weak-hearted craven,” cried Diogenes whose moustache bristled with fury now, “for by Heaven I swear that you shall not leave this place with a whole skin save to do an honest man’s act of reparation.”

And as if to give greater emphasis to his words Diogenes gave the other man’s arm a vigorous wrench which caused Beresteyn to groan and curse with pain.

“I may have to hurt you worse than this presently,” said the philosopher imperturbably as he dragged Beresteyn⁠—who by now felt dizzy and helpless⁠—to the nearest chair and deposited him there. “Were you not her brother, I believe I should crack your obstinate skull; as it is⁠ ⁠… I will leave you here to take counsel with reason and honesty until I have finally disposed of my Lord of Stoutenburg.”

He ran quickly to the outer door, pushed the bolts home, gave the key an extra turn and then pulled it out of the lock and threw it out of the window. Beresteyn⁠—somewhat stunned with emotion, a little faint with that vigorous wrench on his arm, and prostrate with the fatigue and excitement of the past two days⁠—made no attempt to stop him. No doubt he realized that any such attempt would indeed be useless: there was so much vitality, so much strength in the man that his tall stature appeared to Nicolaes now of giant-like proportions, and his powers to savour of the supernatural.

He watched him with dull, tired eyes, as he finally went out of the room through the inner door; no doubt that this too he locked behind him. Beresteyn did not know; he half lay, half sat in the chair like a log, the sound of the fight outside, of the shouts that greeted Diogenes’ arrival, of the latter’s merry laughter that went echoing through the mist, only reached his dull perceptions like a far-off dream.

But in his mind he saw it all: the walls of the hut were transparent before his mental vision, he saw now the unequal fight; a perfect swordsman against Stoutenburg’s unreasoning attacks and Heemskerk’s want of skill. Jan too will have joined them by now, but he was loutish and clumsy. The issue would have been a foregone conclusion even without the aid of the fat knave who had held his own already for nearly ten minutes. Yet, though his thoughts were not by any means all clear upon the subject, Beresteyn made no attempt to go to his own friend’s assistance. Vaguely some pleasing visions began to float through space around him. It seemed as if the magic personality of a nameless adventurer still filled this narrow room with its vitality, with its joy and with its laughter. The optimistic breeziness which emanated from the man himself had lingered here after he was gone. His cheerful words still hung and reverberated upon the cold, wintry air.

“After all, why not?” mused Beresteyn.

Gilda knew of his share in the conspiracy against the Stadtholder of course. But that conspiracy had now aborted; Gilda would never betray her brother’s share in it either to the Stadtholder’s