The First Sir Percy by Baroness Orczy (which ebook reader TXT) 📕

not,” Diogenes replied. “But by your accent I would judge you to be a man who at this moment is mightily afraid.”

“Afraid?” Stoutenburg retorted, with a loud laugh. “I, afraid of a helpless vagabond who has been fool enough to run his head into a noose which I had not even thought of preparing for him?”

“Yet you are afraid my lord,” the other rejoined quietly, “else you would not have ordered your bodyguard to watch over your precious person whilst you parleyed with a blind man.”

“My bodyguard is only waiting for final orders to take you to the gallows,” Stoutenburg rejoined roughly. “You may as well know now as later that it is my intention to hang you.”

“As well now as later,” the blind man assented, with easy philosophy. “I understand that for the nonce, whoever you Magnificence may be, you are master in Amersfoort. As such, you have a right to hang anyone you choose. Me or another. What matters? I was very nearly hung once, you must know, by the Lord of Stoutenburg. I did not mind much then; I’d mind it still less now. People talk of a hereafter. Well, whatever it is, it must be a better world that this, so I would just as soon as not, go and find out for myself.”

He struggled to his feet, still groping with his hands for support, found the edge of the table and leaned up against it.

“Let’s to the hangman, my lord,” he said thickly. “If I’m to hang, I prefer it to be done at once. And if we tarry too long I might get sober ere I embark on the last adventure. But,” he added, and once more appeared to search the room with eyes that could not see, “there’s someone else here besides your lordship. Who is it?”

“My friend and yours,” Stoutenburg replied. “Mynheer Nicolaes Beresteyn.”

There was a second or two of silence. Nicolaes made as if he would speak, but Stoutenburg quickly put a finger up to his lips, enjoining him to remain still. The blind man passed his trembling hand once or twice in front of his eyes as if to draw aside an unseen veil that hid the outer world from his gaze.

“Ah!” he murmured contentedly. “My friend Klaas! He is here too, is he? That is indeed good news. For Nicolaes was ever my friend. That time three months ago⁠—or was it three years, or three centuries? I really have lost count⁠—that time that the Lord of Stoutenburg was on the point of hanging me, Klaas would have interposed on my behalf, only something went wrong with his heart at the moment, or his nerves, I forget which.”

“ ’Twere no use to rely on mynheer’s interference this time,” Stoutenburg put in drily. “There is but one person in the world now who can save you from the gallows.”

“You mean the Lord of Stoutenburg himself?” the blind man queried blandly.

“Nay! He is determined to hang you. But there is another.”

“Then I pray your lordship to tell me who that other is,” Diogenes replied.

“You might find one, sirrah, in the jongejuffrouw Gilda Beresteyn, the Lord of Stoutenburg’s promised wife.”

Diogenes made no reply to this. He was facing the table now, still clinging to it with one hand, whilst the other wandered over the objects on the table. Suddenly they encountered a crystal jug which was full of wine. An expression of serene beatitude overspread his face. He raised the goblet to his lips, but ere he drank he said carelessly:

“Ah, the jongejuffrouw Beresteyn is the promised wife of the Lord of Stoutenburg?”

“My promised wife!” Stoutenburg put in roughly. “Methought you would ere this have recognized the man whom you tried to rob of all that he held most precious.”

“Your lordship must forgive me,” the blind man rejoined drily. “But some unknown miscreant⁠—whom may the gods punish⁠—interfered with me yesterday forenoon, when I was trying to render assistance to my friend Klaas. In the scuffle that ensued, I received a cloud of stinking fumes in the face, which has totally robbed me of sight.”

As he spoke he raised his eyes, blinking in that pathetic and inconsequent manner peculiar to the blind. Nicolaes gave an audible groan. He could not bear to look on those sightless orbs, which in the flickering light of the wax candles appeared weird and unearthly.

“Oh,” Stoutenburg put in carelessly, “is that how the⁠—er⁠—accident occurred?”

“So, please your lordship, yes,” Diogenes replied. “And I was left stranded on the moor, since those two unreclaimed varlets, Pythagoras and Socrates by name, did effectually ride off in the wake of the Stadtholder, leaving me in the lurch. A pitiable plight, your lordship will admit.”

“So pitiable,” the other retorted with a sneer, “that you thought to improve your condition by bearding the Lord of Stoutenburg in his lair.”

“I did not know your lordship was in Amersfoort,” Diogenes replied imperturbably. “I thought⁠—I hoped⁠—”

He paused, and Stoutenburg tried in vain to read what went on behind that seemingly unclouded brow. The blind man appeared serene, detached, perfectly good-humoured. His slender hand, which looked hard beneath its coating of grime, was closed lovingly around the crystal jug. Stoutenburg vaguely wondered how far the man was really drunk, or whether his misfortune had slightly addled his brain. So much unconcern in the face of an imminent and shameful death gave an uncanny air to the whole appearance of the man. Even now, with a gently apologetic smile, he raised the jug once more to his lips. Stoutenburg placed a peremptory hand upon his arm.

“Put that down, man,” he said harshly. “You are drunk enough as it is, and you’ll have need of all your wits tonight.”

“There you are wrong my lord,” Diogenes retorted, and quietly transferred the jug to his other hand. “A man, meseems, needs no wits to hang gracefully. And I feel that I could do that best if I might quench my thirst ere I met my friend the hangman.”

“You may not