The old instinct of deference and good behaviour before a noble lord lent some semblance of steadiness to Pythagoras’ legs. He struggled to his feet, vainly endeavored to keep an upright and dignified position—an attempt which, however, proved utterly futile.
Whereupon my lord called peremptorily to Jan, who appeared so suddenly in the doorway that, to Pythagoras’ blurred vision, it seemed as if he had been put there by some kind of witchery. He approached his master, and there ensued a brief, whispered colloquy between those two—a colloquy in which Heemskerk took no part. After which, the lord of Stoutenburg said aloud:
“Set this worthy fellow on his horse, my good Jan, and put him on the track which leads to Amersfoort. He has had a rest and a good warm drink. He is not like to lose his way again.”
Vaguely Pythagoras felt that he wished to protest. He did not want to be set on his horse, nor yet to go to Amersfoort just yet. The wedding was not until the morrow—no, the day after the morrow—and for the nonce he wanted to sleep. Yes, sleep! Curled up in a blanket in any corner big enough and warm enough to shelter a dog.
Sleep! That was what he wanted; for he was so confoundedly sleepy, and this verfloekte darkness interfered with his eyes so that he could not see very clearly in front of him. All this he explained with grave deliberation to Jan, who had him tightly by the elbow and was leading him with absolutely irresistible firmness out through the door into the white, inhospitable open.
“I don’t want to get to horse,” the philosopher babbled thickly. “I want to curl up in a blanket and I want to go to sleep.”
But, despite his protestations, he found himself presently in the saddle. How he got up there, he certainly could not have told you. Instinct, however, kept him there. Never could it be said that Pythagoras had tumbled off a horse. Anon he felt that the horse was moving, and that the air around him was bitterly cold.
The dull, even carpet of snow dazzled him, though it was pitch dark now both overhead and down below; of darkness that enveloped one like a mantle, and which felt as if it could have been cut through with a knife.
The horse went on at a steady trot, and another was trotting by its side, bearing a cavalier who wore a fur bonnet. Pythagoras vaguely imagined that this must be Jan. He owed Jan a grudge for taking him away from that hospitable molen, where half-bottles of wine were magically transformed into large ones, filled to overflowing with delicious liquor.
Presently Pythagoras began to feel cold again after the blissful warmth produced by that super-excellent Spanish wine.
“Is it far to Amersfoort?” he queried drowsily from time to time.
But he never seemed to get a reply. It appeared to him as if he had been hours in the saddle since last he felt comfortable and warm over in that hospitable molen. And he was very sleepy. His head felt heavy and his eyes would not keep open as hours and hours went by and the cold grew more and more intense.
“Is it far to Amersfoort?” he questioned whenever his head rolled forward with a jerk that roused him to momentary consciousness.
“Less than half a league now,” Jan replied presently, and brought his own horse to a halt. “Follow the track before you and it will lead you straight to the city gates.”
Pythagoras opened his eyes very wide. Straightway in front of him he perceived one or two tiny lights, which were too low down on the horizon for stars. The road, too, on which he found himself appeared straighter and more defined than those upon that verfloekte waste.
“Are those the lights of Amersfoort?” he murmured vaguely, and pointed in as straight a direction as his numbed arm would allow.
He expected an answer from Jan but there came none. The darkness appeared to have swallowed up horse and rider. Anyway, they had disappeared. Good old Jan! Pythagoras would have liked to thank him for his company, even though he did owe him a grudge for taking him away from the molen where there had been such wonderful—
The horse followed the track for a minute or two longer Pythagoras, left to his own devices, tried to keep awake. Suddenly the sharp report of a pistol rent the silence of the night. It was immediately followed by another.
Pythagoras felt a strange, sinking sensation in his stomach, a dizzy feeling in his head, a feeling which was no longer blissful like the one he had experienced after the third mugful of Spanish wine. A moment later, he fell forward on his horse’s neck, then rolled out of the saddle down upon the bed of snow.
And at this spot, where the poor philosopher lay, the white pall which covered the Veluwe was dyed with a dark crimson stain.
V
A grey, dull light suffused the sky in the East when Jan once more knocked at the door of the old molen.
Stoutenburg’s voice bade him enter.
“All well?” my lord queried, at sight of his faithful servant.
“All quiet, my lord,” replied Jan. “That windbag, I’ll warrant, will tell no tales.”
“How far did you take him?”
“Nearly as far as Lang Soeren. I had to keep a track for fear of losing my way. But he lies eight leagues from Amersfoort now and six from Ede. His friends, I imagine, won’t look for him thus far.”
“And his horse?”
“It did not follow me. No doubt it will get picked up by someone in the morning.”
Heemskerk shivered. It was certainly very cold inside this great, barn-like place at this hour just before sunrise; and the passing wayfarer had consumed the last measure of wine. The young man looked grimy, too,
