She did not know what had become of him, and dared not ask for news. Mynheer Beresteyn, loyal to the House of Nassau and to its prince, had cast out of his heart the sons of John of Barneveld whom he had once loved. Assassins and traitors, he would with his own lips have condemned them to the block, or denounced them to the vengeance of the Stadtholder for their treachery against him.
The feeling of uncertainty as to Stoutenburg’s fate softened Gilda’s heart toward him. She knew that he had become a wanderer on the face of the earth, Cain-like, homeless, friendless, practically kinless; she pitied him far more than she did Groeneveld or the others who were looking death quite closely in the face.
She was infinitely sorry for him, for him and for his wife, for whose sake he had been false to his first love. The gentle murmur of the breeze, the distant call of the waterfowl, seemed to bring back to Gilda’s ears those whisperings of ardent passion which had come from Stoutenburg’s lips years ago. She had listened to them with joy then, with glowing eyes cast down and cheeks that flamed up at his words.
And as she listened to these dream-sounds others more concrete mingled with the mystic ones far away: the sound of stealthy footsteps upon the flagged path of the garden, and of a human being breathing and panting somewhere close by, still hidden by the gathering shadows of the night.
She held her breath to listen—not at all frightened, for the sound of those footsteps, the presence of that human creature close by, were in tune with her mood of expectancy of something that was foredoomed to come.
Suddenly the breeze brought to her ear the murmur of her name, whispered as if in an agony of pleading:
“Gilda!”
She leaned right out of the window. Her eyes, better accustomed to the dim evening light, perceived a human figure that crouched against the yew hedge, in the fantastic shadow cast by the quaintly shaped peacock at the corner close to the house.
“Gilda!” came the murmur again, more insistent this time.
“Who goes there?” she called in response: and it was an undefinable instinct stronger than her will that caused her to drop her own voice also to a whisper.
“A fugitive hunted to his death,” came the response scarce louder than the breeze. “Give me shelter, Gilda—human bloodhounds are on my track.”
Gilda’s heart seemed to stop its beating; the human figure out there in the shadows had crept stealthily nearer. The window out of which she leaned was only a few feet from the ground; she stretched out her hand into the night.
“There is a projection in the wall just there,” she whispered hurriedly, “and the ivy stems will help you. … Come!”
The fugitive grasped the hand that was stretched out to him in pitying helpfulness. With the aid of the projection in the wall and of the stems of the century-old ivy, he soon cleared the distance which separated him from the windowsill. The next moment he had jumped into the room.
Gilda in this impulsive act of mercy had not paused to consider either the risks or the cost. She had recognised the voice of the man whom she had once loved, that voice called to her out of the depths of boundless misery; it was the call of a man at bay, a human quarry hunted and exhausted, with the hunters close upon his heels. She could not have resisted that call even if she had allowed her reason to fight her instinct then.
But now that he stood before her in rough fisherman’s clothes, stained and torn, his face covered with blood and grime, his eyes red and swollen, the breath coming in quick, short gasps through his blue, cracked lips, the first sense of fear at what she had done seized hold of her heart.
At first he took no notice of her, but threw himself into the nearest chair and passed his hands across his face and brow.
“My God,” he murmured, “I thought they would have me tonight.”
She stood in the middle of the room, feeling helpless and bewildered; she was full of pity for the man, for there is nothing more unutterably pathetic than the hunted human creature in its final stage of apathetic exhaustion, but she was just beginning to coordinate her thoughts and they for the moment were being invaded by fear.
She felt more than she saw, that presently he turned his hollow, purple-rimmed eyes upon her, and that in them there was a glow half of passionate willpower and half of anxious, agonizing doubt.
“Of what are you afraid, Gilda?” he asked suddenly, “surely not of me?”
“Not of you, my lord,” she replied quietly, “only for you.”
“I am a miserable outlaw now, Gilda,” he rejoined bitterly, “four thousand golden guilders await any lout who chooses to sell me for a competence.”
“I know that, my lord … and marvel why you are here? I heard that you were safe—in Belgium.”
He laughed and shrugged his shoulders.
“I was safe there,” he said, “but I could not rest. I came back a few days ago, thinking I could help my brother to escape. Bah!” he added roughly, “he is a snivelling coward. …”
“Hush! for pity’s sake,” she exclaimed, “someone will hear you.”
“Close that window and lock the door,” he murmured hoarsely. “I am spent—and could not resist a child if it chose to drag me at this moment to the Stadtholder’s spies.”
Gilda obeyed him mechanically. First she closed the window; then she went to the door listening against the panel with all her senses on the alert. At the further end of the passage was the living-room where her father must still be sitting after his supper, poring over a book on horticulture, or mayhap attending to his tulip bulbs. If he knew that the would-be murderer of the Stadtholder, the prime mover and instigator of the dastardly plot was here in his house, in his daughter’s
