“By my halidame!” a merry voice swore lustily. “But meseems that your lordship had no thought of seeing me here!”
Just for a few seconds, superstitious fear held the miscreant gripped by the throat. A few seconds? To him, to Gilda, they seemed an eternity. Then a hoarse whisper escaped him.
“Spectre or demon, which are you?”
“Both, you devil!” the mocking voice gave reply. “And I would send you down to hell and shoot you like a dog where you stand, but for the noise which would bring your men about mine ears.”
“To hell yourself, you infamous plepshurk!” Stoutenburg cried, strove to shake off with a mighty effort the superstitious dread that made a weakling of him. He fumbled for his sword, succeeded in drawing it from its scabbard, and cursed himself for being without a pistol in his belt.
“Where you came from, I know not,” he went on in a husky whisper. “But be you wraith or demon, you—”
He seemed to speak involuntarily, as if sheer terror was forcing the words through his bloodless lips. Suddenly he uttered a hoarse cry:
“A moi! Somebody there! A moi!”
But the walls of the old molen were thick, and his voice, spent and still half-choked with the horror of that spectral apparition, refused him effective service. It failed to carry far enough. The tiny windows were impracticable; the soldiers were outside at the rear of the building, out of earshot; and down below there was only the old waiting woman.
“That smeerlap!” he cried, half to himself. “Either a wraith or blind. In either case—”
And, sword in hand, he rushed upon his mocking enemy. A blind man! Bah! What had he to fear? The rogue had in truth thrust Gilda behind him. He stood there, with one of those short English daggers in his hand, which had of late put the fine Toledo blades to shame. But a blind man, for all that! How he had escaped out of Amersfoort, and by whose connivance Stoutenburg had not time to think. But the man was blind. Every phase of last evening’s interview with him—the vacant eyes, the awkward movements—stood out clearly before his lordship’s mental vision, and testified to that one fact; the man was blind and helpless.
Crouching like a feline creature upon his haunches, Stoutenburg was ready for a spring. His every movement became lithe and silent as that of a snake. He had marked out to himself just how and where he would strike. He only waited until those eyes—those awful eyes—ceased to look on him. But their glance never wavered. They followed his ever step. They mocked and derided and threatened withal! By Satan and all his hordes! those stricken orbs could see!
At what precise moment that conviction entered Stoutenburg’s tortured brain, he could not himself have told you. But suddenly it was there. And in an instant his nerve completely forsook him. An icy sweat broke all over his body. His head swam, his knees gave way under him, the sword dropped out of his nerveless hand. Then, with a quick hoarse cry, he turned to flee. His foot was on the top step of the ladder which led to the room below. A prolonged, mocking laugh behind him seemed to lend him wings. But freedom—aye, and more!—beckoned from below. There was only an old woman there, and his soldiers were outside. Ye gods! He was a fool to fear!
He flew down the few steps, nearly fell headlong in the act, for his nerves were playing him an unpleasant trick, and the afternoon light was growing dim. At first, when he reached the place below, he saw nothing. Nothing save the welcome door, straight before him which led straight to freedom from this paralysing obsession. With one bound he had covered half the intervening space, when suddenly he paused, and an awful curse rose to his lips. There, in the recess of the doorway, two men were squatting on their heels, intent upon a game of hazard. One of these men was long and lean, the other round as a curled-up hedgehog. They did no more than glance over their shoulder when His Magnificence the Lord of Stoutenburg came staggering down the steps.
“Five and four,” the lean vagabond was saying. “How many does that make?”
“Eight, you loon!” the other replied. “My turn now.”
They continued their game, regardless of his lordship who stood there rooted to the spot, trembling in every limb, his body covered with sweat, feeling like an animal that sees a trap slowly closing in upon him.
The situation was indeed one to send a man out of his senses. Stoutenburg, for one brief instant, felt that he was going mad. He looked from the door to the steps, and back again to the door, marvelling which way lay his one chance of escape. If he shouted, would he be heard? Could his men get to him before those two ruffians fell to and murdered him? Dared he make a dash for the door? Or—It was unthinkable that he—Stoutenburg—should be standing here, at the mercy of three villains, utterly powerless, when outside, not fifty paces away, the other side of those walls, fifty men at arms were there, set to guard his person.
And suddenly fear fell away from him. The trembling of his limbs ceased, his vision became clear, his mind alert. Even around his quaking lips there came the ghost of a smile.
His senses, keyed up by the imminence of his danger, had seized upon a sound which came from outside, faint as yet, but very obviously drawing nearer. In the semidarkness and with his head buzzing and his nerves tingling, he could not distinguish either the quality of the sound nor yet the exact direction whence it came.
