Did her memory conjure back just then the vision of that other molen, the one at Ryswick, where so much had happened three short months ago, and where this arrogant tyrant had played such a sorry role? Perhaps. Certain it is that she turned to him without any defiance, almost with a gentle air of appeal.
“I am very tired,” she said, with a weary little sigh, “and would be grateful for a little privacy, if your lordship would allow my tire-woman to attend on me.”
“Your wishes are my laws, myn schat,” he replied airily. “I entreat you to look on this somewhat dilapidated building only as a temporary halt, where nothing, alas! can be done for your comfort. I trust you will not suffer from the cold, but absolute privacy you shall have. The loft up those narrow steps is entirely at your disposal, and your woman shall come to you immediately.”
Indeed, he called at once through the door, and a moment or two later Maria appeared, reduced to silence for the nonce by a wholesome fear. Stoutenburg, in the meanwhile, still with that same ironical gallantry, had conducted Gilda to the narrow, ladder-like steps which led up to the loft. He stood at the foot, watching her serene and leisurely progress.
“How wise you are, mejuffrouw,” he said, with a sigh of satisfaction. “And withal how desirable!”
She turned for a second, then, and looked down on him. But her eyes were quite inscrutable. Never had he desired her so much as now. With the gloomy background of those rickety walls behind her, she looked like an exquisite fairy; her dainty head wrapped in a hood, through which her small, oval face appeared, slightly rose-tinted, like a piece of delicate china.
The huge fur coat concealed the lines of her graceful figure, but one perfect hand rested upon the rail, and the other peeped out like a flower between the folds of her cloak. He all but lost his head when he gazed on her, and met those blue eyes that still held a mystery for him. But, with Stoutenburg, ambition and selfishness always waged successful warfare even against passion, and at this hour his entire destiny was hanging in the balance.
The look wherewith he regarded her was that of a conqueror rather than a lover. The title of the English play had come swiftly through his mind: The Taming of the Shrew. In truth, Nicolaes had been right. Women have no use for weaklings. It is their master whom they worship.
Just one word of warning did he give her ere she finally passed out of his sight.
“There will be noise of fighting anon, myn engel,” he said carelessly. “Nothing that need alarm you. An encounter with vedettes probably. A few musket shots. You will not be afraid?”
“No,” she replied simply. “I will not be afraid.”
“You will be safe here with me until we can continue our journey east or south. It will depend on what progress de Berg has been able to make.”
She gave a slight nod of understanding.
“I shall be ready,” she said.
Encouraged by her gentleness, he went on more warmly:
“And at the hour when we leave here together, myn schat, a runner will speed to Amersfoort with order to Jan to evacuate the city. The burgomaster will be in a position to announce to his fellow-citizens that they have nothing to fear from a chivalrous enemy, who will respect person and property, and who will go out of the gates of Amersfoort as empty-handed as he came.”
Whereupon he made her a low and respectful bow, stood aside to allow the serving woman to follow her mistress. Gilda had acknowledged his last pompous tirade with a faintly murmured, “I thank you, my lord.” Then she went quickly up the steps and finally passed out of his sight on the floor above.
Just for a little while he remained quite still, listening to her footsteps overhead. His lean, sharp-featured face expressed nothing but contentment now. Success—complete, absolute—was his at last! Less than a fortnight ago, he was nothing but a disappointed vagrant, without home, kindred, or prospects; scorned by the woman he loved; despised by a successful rival; an outcast from the land of his birth.
Today, his rival was dead—an object of contempt, not even of pity, for every honest man; while Gilda, like a ripe and luscious fruit, was ready to fall into his arms. And he had his foot firmly planted on the steps of a throne.
V
And now the midday hour had gone by, and silence, absolute, reigned in and around the molen. Stoutenburg had spend some time talking to the captain in command of his guard, had himself seen to it that the men were well concealed in the rear of the molen. The horses had been sent down to the camp so as to preclude any possibility of an alarm being given before the apportioned time. Two men were stationed on the platform to keep a lookout upon the distance, where anon the Stadtholder and his troop would appear.
Indeed, everything was ordained and arranged with perfect precision in anticipation of the great coup which was destined to deliver Maurice of Nassau into the hands of his enemy. Everything!—provided that blind informer who lay dead in the banqueting hall of the stately house at Amersfoort had not lied from first to last.
But even if he had lied, even if the Stadtholder had not planned this expedition, or, having planned it, had abandoned it or given up the thought of leading it in person—even so, Stoutenburg was prepared to be satisfied. Already his busy brain was full of plans, which he would put into execution if the present one did not yield him the supreme prize. Gilda was his now, whatever happened. Gilda, and her wealth, and the influence of the Burgomaster Beresteyn, henceforth irrevocably tied to the chariot wheel of
