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

became him so well⁠—splendour of physique, of youth and of strength, and those laughing eyes that questioned and that mocked, the lips that always smiled and the straight brow with its noble sweep which hid the true secret of his personality. And once again⁠—as on that evening at Leyden⁠—she fell almost to hating him, angered that such a man should be nothing better than a knave, a mercenary rogue paid to lend a hand in unavowable deeds.

He stood her scrutiny as best he could, answering her look of haughty condescension with one of humble deference; but the smile of gentle irony never left his lips and tempered the humility of his attitude.

“You have owned to me, sir,” resumed Gilda Beresteyn at last, “that you have been paid for the infamous work which you are doing now; for laying hands on me in the streets of Haarlem and for keeping me a prisoner at the good will of your employer. To own to such a trade, sir, is to admit oneself somewhat below the level of honest men. Is that not so?”

“Below the level of most men, mejuffrouw, I admit,” he replied imperturbably.

“Had it not been for that admission on your part, I would never have thought of coming to you with a proposal which.⁠ ⁠…”

“Which you never would have put before an honest man,” he broke in with perfect equanimity, seeing that she hesitated.

“You anticipate my thought, sir: and I am glad to find that you will make my errand even easier than I had hoped. Briefly then let me tell you⁠—as I told you at Leyden⁠—that I know who your paymaster is. A man has thought fit to perpetrate a crime against me, for a reason which no doubt he deemed expedient and which probably he has not imparted to you. Reasons and causes I imagine, sir, are no concern of yours. You take payment for your deeds and do not inquire into motives. Is that not so?”

This time Diogenes only made a slight bow in acknowledgment of her question. He was smiling to himself more grimly than was his wont, for he had before him the recollection of the Lord of Stoutenburg⁠—cruel, coarse, and evil, bullying and striking a woman⁠—and of Nicolaes Beresteyn⁠—callous and cynical, bartering his sister’s honour and safety to ensure his own. To the one she had plighted her troth, the other was her natural protector, dear to her through those sweet bonds of childhood which bind brother and sister in such close affection. Yet both are selfish, unscrupulous rogues, thought the philosopher, though both very dear to her, and both honest men in her sight.

“That being so, sir,” she resumed once more, “meseems that you should be equally ready to do me service and to ask me no questions, provided that I pay you well.”

“That, mejuffrouw,” he said quietly, “would depend on the nature of the service.”

“It is quite simple, sir. Let me explain. While my woman and I were having supper upstairs, the wench who served us fell to gossiping, telling us the various news of the day which have filtered through into Rotterdam. Among other less important matters, sir, she told us that the Prince of Orange had left his camp at Sprang in order to journey northwards to Amsterdam. Yesterday he and his escort of one hundred men-at-arms passed close to this city; they were making for Delft where the Prince means to spend a day or two before proceeding further on his journey. He sleeps at the Prinzenhof in Delft this night.”

“Yes, mejuffrouw?” he said, for suddenly her manner had changed; something of its coolness had gone from it, even if the pride was still there. While she spoke a warm tinge of pink flooded her cheeks; she was leaning forward, her eyes bright and glowing were fixed upon him with a look of eagerness and almost of appeal, and her lips were moist and trembling, whilst the words which she wished to speak seemed to be dying in her throat.

“What hath the progress of the Prince of Orange to do with your most humble and most obedient servant?” he asked again.

“I must speak with the Prince of Orange, sir,” she said while her voice now soft and mellow fell almost like a prayer on his ear. “I must go to him to Delft not later than tomorrow. Oh! you will not refuse me this⁠ ⁠… you cannot⁠ ⁠… I.⁠ ⁠…”

She had clasped her hands together, her eyes were wet with tears, and as she pleaded, she bent forward so low in her chair, that it seemed for a moment as if her knees would touch the ground. In the flickering candlelight she looked divinely pretty thus, with all the cold air of pride gone from her childlike face. A gentle draught stirred the fair curls round her head, the fur cloak had completely slipped down from her shoulders and her white dress gave her more than ever the air of that Madonna carved in marble which he had seen once in the cathedral at Prague.

The philosopher passed a decidedly shaking hand across his forehead: the room was beginning to whirl round him, the floor to give way under his feet. He fell to thinking that the mild ale offered to him by Ben Isaje had been more heady than he had thought.

“St. Bavon,” he murmured to himself, “where in Heaven’s name are ye now? I asked you to stand by me.”

It was one of those moments⁠—perfect in themselves⁠—when a man can forget everything that pertains to the outer world, when neither self-interest nor ordinary prudence will count, when he is ready to jeopardize his life, his career, his future, his very soul for the ecstasy which lies in the one heaven-born minute. Thus it was with this philosopher, this man of the moment, the adventurer, the soldier of fortune; the world which he had meant to conquer, the fortune which he had vowed to win seemed to slip