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

“But just now you said⁠—”

“That it was my intention to hang you,” Stoutenburg assented. “So it is. But I am in rare good humour tonight, and⁠—”

“So it seems, my lord,” the blind man put in carelessly. “So it seems.”

He appeared to be swaying on his feet, and to have some difficulty in retaining his balance. He still clung to the edge of the table with one hand. In the other he had the jug fill of wine.

“The jongejuffrouw Gilda Beresteyn,” Stoutenburg went on, “will sup with me this night to celebrate our betrothal. The fulfillment of this, my great desire, hath caused me to feel lenient toward mine enemies.”

“Have I not always asserted,” Diogenes broke in with comical solemnity⁠—“always ass-asserted that your lordship was a noble and true gentleman?”

“Women, we know,” his lordship continued, ignoring the interruption, “are wont to be tenderhearted where their⁠—their former swains are concerned. And I feel that if the jongejuffrouw herself did make appeal to me on your behalf, I would relent towards you.”

“B-b-but would that not be an awkward⁠—a very awkward decision for your lordship?” Diogenes riposted, turning round vacant eyes on Stoutenburg.

“Awkward? How so?”

“If I do not hang, the jongejuffrouw, ’stead of being my widow, would still be my wife. And the laws of this country⁠—”

“I have no concern with the laws of this country,” Stoutenburg rejoined drily, “in which, anyhow, you are an alien. As soon as the Archduchess our Liege Lady is once more mistress here, we shall again be at war with England.”

“Poor England!”

Diogenes sighed, and solemnly wiped a tear from his blinking eyes.

“And every English plepshurk will be kicked out of the country. But that is neither here nor there.”

“Neither here nor there,” the other assented, with owlish gravity. “But before England is s-sh-s-swept off the map, my lordship, what will happen?”

“My marriage to the jongejuffrouw,” Stoutenburg replied curtly. “She hath consented to be my wife, and my wife she will be as soon as I have mind to take her. So you may drink to our union, sirrah. I’ll e’en pledge you in a cup.”

He poured himself out a goblet of wine, laughing to himself at his own ingenuity. That was the way to treat the smeerlap. Make him feel what a pitiable, abject knave he was! Then show him up before Gilda, just as he was⁠—drunk, ragged, unkempt, an object of derision in his misfortune rather than of pity.

“Nay,” the rascal objected, his speech waxing thicker and his hand more unsteady, “I cannot pledge you, my lord, in drinking to your union with my own wife, unless⁠—unless my friend Klaas will drink to that union, too. Mine own brother by the law, you see, my lord, and⁠—”

“Mynheer Nicolaes will indeed drink to his sister’s happy union with me,” Stoutenburg retorted, with a sneer. “His presence here is a witness to my good intentions toward the wench. So you may drink, sirrah. The jongejuffrouw herself is overwilling to submit to my pleasure⁠—”

But the imperious words were smothered in his throat, giving place to a fierce exclamation of choler. The blind man had at his invitation raised the jug of wine to his lips, but in the act his feet apparently slipped away from under him. The jug flew out of his hand, would have caught the Lord of Stoutenburg on the head had he not ducked just in time. But even so his Magnificence was hit on the shoulder by the heavy crystal vessel, and splashed from head to foot with the wine, whilst Diogenes collapsed on the floor with a shamed and bibulous laugh.

A string of savage oaths and tempestuous abuse poured from Stoutenburg’s lips, which were in truth livid with rage. Already Jan had rushed to his assistance, snatched up a serviette from the table, and soon contrived to wipe his lordship’s doublet clean.

The blind man in the meanwhile did his best to hoist himself up on his feet once more, clung to the edge of the table; but the sight of him released the last floodgate of Stoutenburg’s tempestuous wrath. He turned with a vicious snarl upon the unfortunate man, and it would indeed have fared ill with the defenceless creature, for the Lord of Stoutenburg was not wont to measure his blows by the helplessness of his victims, had not a sudden exclamation from Nicolaes stayed the hand that was raised to strike.

“Gilda!” the young man cried impulsively.

Stoutenburg’s arm dropped to his side. He turned toward the door. Gilda had just entered with her father, and was coming slowly down the room.

Gilda caught sight of her beloved the moment she entered. To say that their eyes met would indeed be folly. Certain it is, however, that the blind man turned his sightless gaze in her direction. She only gave a gasp, pressed her hands to her heart as if the pain there was unendurable, and at the moment even the beauty of her face was marred by the look of soul-racking misery in her eyes and the quivering lines around her mouth.

The next moment, even while Jan and the soldiers retired, closing the doors behind them, she was in her husband’s arms. Ay, even though Stoutenburg tried to intercept her. She did not hear his mocking laugh, or her brother’s vigorous protest, nor yet her father’s cry of horror. She just clung to him who, blind, fallen, degraded an you will, was still the beloved of her heart, the man to whom she had dedicated her soul.

She swallowed her tears, too proud to allow those who had wrought his ruin to see how mortally she was hurt.

She passed her delicate hands, fragrant as the petals of flowers, over his grimy face, those poor, stricken eyes, the noble brow so deeply furrowed with pain. She murmured words of endearment and of tenderness such as a