“I like best to think of you as Diogenes,” she murmured softly. “Thus I knew you first, and your brother philosophers, Socrates and Pythagoras—such a quaint trio, and all of you so unsuited to your names! I wish,” she added with a sigh, “that they were here now.”
“And they should be here,” he assented. “I am deeply anxious. But Pythagoras—”
He broke off abruptly. Mynheer Beresteyn’s voice called to him from the recess by the open window.
“A goblet of wine!” Mynheer commanded; “for his Highness.”
Diogenes was about to comply with the order, but Nicolaes forestalled him. Already he had poured out the wine.
“Let me take it,” he said curtly, took up the goblet and went with it to the window. He offered it to the Stadtholder, who drank greedily.
It was but a brief incident. Nicolaes had remained beside the prince while the latter drank; then he returned, with the empty goblet in his hand, to take his place once more beside his stolid and solid bride.
“You were speaking of Pythagoras, sir,” Gilda rejoined, as soon as Diogenes was once more seated beside her. “I never know which is which of the two dear souls. Is Pythagoras the lean one with the deep, bass voice?”
“No. He is the fat one, with the round, red nose,” Diogenes replied gravely. “He was at Ede the night before last, and was seen there, at the tavern of the Crow’s Nest, somewhere after midnight, imbibing copious draughts of hot, spiced ale. After that all traces of him have vanished. But he must have started to join me here, as this had been prearranged, and I fear me that he lost his way on that verfloekte waste. I have sent Socrates, my lean comrade—he with the deep, bass voice—together with a search party, to look for poor Pythagoras upon the Veluwe. They should be here, in truth, and—”
But the next word died in his throat. He jumped to his feet.
“The Stadtholder!” he exclaimed. “He hath fainted.”
IV
Indeed, there was quite a commotion now in the window recess, where Prince Maurice had remained all this while by the open casement, inhaling the fresh, keen air. The English physician stood beside him, and Mynheer Beresteyn was gazing with anxious eyes on the master to whom, in spite of all, he had remained so splendidly loyal. The dizziness had apparently come on quite suddenly, while the Stadtholder was acknowledging the acclamations of the crowd who had seen and cheered him. He tottered and would have fallen but for the physician’s supporting arm.
Not many of the guests had noticed the incident. They were for the most part too much absorbed in their enjoyment of the feast to pay attention to what went on in other parts of the room. But Diogenes had seen it and was already over by the window; and Nicolaes Beresteyn, too, had jumped to his feet. He looked wide-eyed and scared, even whilst the stolid Kaatje, flushed with good cheer, remained perfectly unconcerned, munching some sweetmeats which seemed to delight her palate.
The Stadtholder, however, had quickly recovered. The faintness passed off as suddenly as it came, but it left the illustrious guest more silent and moody than before. His face had become of a yellowish pallor, and his eyes looked sunken as if consumed with fever. But he chose to return to his seat under the dais, and this time he called to Diogenes to give him the support of his arm.
“ ’Twas scarce worth while, eh, my friend,” he said bitterly, “to risk your precious young life in order to save this precarious one. Had Stoutenburg’s bomb done the assassin’s work, it would only have anticipated events by less than three months.”
“Your Highness is overtired,” Diogenes rejoined simply. “Complete rest in the midst of your friends would fight this insidious sickness far better than the wisest of physicians.”
“What do you mean?” the Stadtholder immediately retorted, his keen, hawk-like glance searching the soldier’s smiling face. “Why should you say ‘in the midst of your friends?’ ” he went on huskily. “You don’t mean—?”
“What, your Highness?”
“I mean—you said it so strangely—as if—”
“I, your Highness?” Diogenes queried, not a little surprised at the Stadtholder’s febrile agitation.
“I myself have oft wondered—”
Maurice of Nassau paused abruptly, rested his elbows on the table, and for a moment or two remained quite still, his forehead buried in his hands. Gilda gazed on him wide-eyed and tearful; even Kaatje ceased to munch. It seemed terrible to be so great a man, wielding such power, commanding such obedience, and to be reduced to a mere babbling sufferer, fearing phantoms and eagerly gleaning any words of comfort that might come from loyal lips.
Diogenes had remained silent, too; his eyes, usually so full of lightheartedness and merriment, had a strange, searching glitter in them now. A minute or two later the prince had pulled himself together, tried to look unconcerned, and assumed a geniality which obviously he was far from feeling. But it was to Diogenes that he spoke once more.
“Anyhow, I could not rest yet awhile, my friend,” he said with a sigh; “whilst the Archduchess threatens Gelderland, the De Berg is making ready to cross the Ijssel.”
“Your Highness’s armies under your Highness’s command,” rejoined the soldier firmly, “can drive the Archduchess’s hosts out of Gelderland, and send Henri de Berg back across the Ijssel. Maurice of Nassau is still the finest commander in Europe, even—”
He paused, and the Stadtholder broke in bitterly:
“Even though he is a dying man, you mean.”
“No!” here broke in Gilda, with glowing fervour. “I swear that nothing was further from my lord’s thoughts. Sir,” she added, and turned boldly to her
