THE WITNESS FOR THE DEFENCE
The Lord of Stoutenburg was the first to enter: behind him came Jan, and
finally a group of soldiers above whose heads towered another broad
white brow, surmounted by a wealth of unruly brown hair which now clung
matted against the moist forehead.
At a word of command from Stoutenburg, Jan and the other soldiers
departed, leaving him and the prisoner only before Gilda Beresteyn.
The man had told her on that first night at Leyden that his name was
Diogenes--a name highly honoured in the history of philosophy.
Well!--philosophy apparently was standing him in good stead, for truly
it must be responsible for the happy way in which he seemed to be
bearing his present unhappy condition.
They had tied his arms behind his back and put a pinion through them,
his clothes were torn, his massive chest was bare, his shirt bore ugly,
dark stains upon it, but his face was just the same, that merry laughing
face with the twinkling eyes, and the gentle irony that lurked round the
lines of the sensitive mouth: at any rate when Gilda--overcome with
pity--looked up with sweet compassion on him, she saw that same curious,
immutable smile that seemed even now to mock and to challenge.
"This is the man, mejuffrouw," began Stoutenburg after awhile, "who on
New Year's day at Haarlem dared to lay hands upon your person. Do you
recognize him?"
"I do recognize him," replied Gilda coldly.
"I imagine," continued Stoutenburg, "that he hath tried to palliate his
own villainies by telling you that he was merely a paid agent in that
abominable outrage."
"I do not think," she retorted still quite coldly, "that
this ... this ... person told me that he was being paid for that
ugly deed: though when I did accuse him of it he did not deny it."
"Do you hear, fellow?" asked Stoutenburg, turning sharply to Diogenes,
"it is time that all this lying should cease. By your calumnies and evil
insinuations you have added to the load of crimes which already have
earned for you exemplary punishment; by those same lies you have caused
the jongejuffrouw an infinity of pain, over and above the horror which
she has endured through your cowardly attack upon her. Therefore I have
thought it best to send for you now so that in her exalted presence at
least you may desist from further lying and that you may be shamed into
acknowledging the truth. Do you hear, fellow?" he reiterated more
harshly as Diogenes stood there, seemingly not even hearing what the
Lord of Stoutenburg said, for his eyes in which a quaint light of humour
danced were fixed upon Gilda's hands that lay clasped upon her lap.
The look in the man's face, the soft pallor on the girl's cheek,
exasperated Stoutenburg's jealous temper beyond his power of control.
"Do you hear?" he shouted once more, and with a sudden grip of the hand
he pulled the prisoner roughly round by the shoulder. That shoulder had
been torn open with a blow dealt by a massive steel blade which had
lacerated it to the bone; even a philosopher's endurance was not proof
against this sudden rending of an already painful wound. Diogenes' pale
face became the colour of lead: the tiny room began dancing an
irresponsive saraband before his eyes, he felt himself swaying, for the
ground was giving way under him, when a cry, gentle and compassionate,
reached his fading senses, and a perfume of exquisite sweetness came to
his nostrils, even as his pinioned arms felt just enough support to
enable him to steady himself.
"Gilda," broke in Stoutenburg's harsh voice upon this intangible dream,
"I entreat you not to demean yourself by ministering to that rogue."
"My poor ministry was for a wounded man, my lord," she retorted curtly.
Then she turned once more to the prisoner.
"You are hurt, sir," she asked as she let her tender blue eyes rest with
kind pity upon him.
"Hurt, mejuffrouw?" he replied with a laugh, which despite himself had
but little merriment in it. "Ask his Magnificence there, he will tell
you that such knaves as I have bones and sinews as tough as their skins.
Of a truth I am not hurt, mejuffrouw ... only overcome with the humour
of this situation. The Lord of Stoutenburg indignant and reproachful at
thought that another man is proficient in the art of lying."
"By heaven," cried Stoutenburg who was white with fury. "Insolent
varlet, take...."
He had seized the first object that lay close to his hand, the heavy
iron tool used for raking the fire out of the huge earthenware stove;
this he raised above his head; the lust to kill glowed out of his eyes,
which had become bloodshot, whilst a thin red foam gathered at the
corners of his mouth. The next moment the life of a philosopher and
weaver of dreams would have been very abruptly ended, had not a woman's
feeble hand held up the crashing blow.
"Hatred, my lord, an you will," said Gilda with perfect sangfroid as she
stood between the man who had so deeply wronged her and the upraised arm
of his deadly enemy, "hatred and fair fight, but not outrage, I pray
you."
Stoutenburg, smothering a curse, threw the weapon away from him: it fell
with a terrific crash upon the wooden floor. Gilda, white and trembling
now after the agonizing excitement of the past awful moment, had sunk
half-swooning back against a chair. Stoutenburg fell on one knee and
humbly raised her gown to his lips.
"Your pardon, Madonna," he whispered, "the sight of your exquisite hands
in contact with that infamous blackguard made me mad. I was almost ready
to cheat the gallows of their prey. I gratefully thank you in that you
saved me from the indignity of staining my hand with a vile creature's
blood."
Quietly and dispassionately Gilda drew her skirts away from him.
"An you have recovered your temper, my lord," she said coldly, "I pray
you ask the prisoner those questions which you desired to put to him. I
am satisfied that he is your enemy, and if he were not bound, pinioned
and wounded he would probably not have need of a woman's hand to protect
him."
Stoutenburg rose to his feet. He was angered with himself for allowing
his hatred and his rage to get the better of his prudence, and tried to
atone for his exhibition of incontinent rage by a great show of dignity
and of reserve.
"I must ask you again, fellow--and for the last time," he said slowly
turning once more to Diogenes, "if you have realized how infamous have
been your insinuations against mine honour, and that of others whom the
jongejuffrouw holds in high regard? Your calumnies have caused her
infinite sorrow more bitter for her to bear than the dastardly crime
which you did commit against her person. Have you realized this, and are
you prepared to make amends for your crime and to mitigate somewhat the
grave punishment which you have deserved by speaking the plain truth
before the jongejuffrouw now?"
"And what plain truth doth the jongejuffrouw desire to hear?" asked
Diogenes with equal calm.
Stoutenburg would have replied, but Gilda broke in quietly:
"Your crime against me, sir, I would readily forgive, had I but the
assurance that no one in whom I trusted, no one whom I loved had a hand
in instigating it."
The ghost of his merry smile--never very distant--spread over the
philosopher's pale face.
"Will you deign to allow me, mejuffrouw," he said, "at any rate to tell
you one certain, unvarnished truth, which mayhap you will not even care
to believe, and that is that I would give my life--the few chances, that
is, that I still have of it--to obliterate from your mind the memory of
the past few days."
"That you cannot do, sir," she rejoined, "but you would greatly ease the
load of sorrow which you have helped to lay upon me, if you gave me the
assurance which I ask."
The prisoner did not reply immediately, and for one brief moment there
was absolute silence in this tiny room, a silence so tense and so vivid
that an eternity of joy and sorrow, of hope and of fear seemed to pass
over the life of these three human creatures here. All three had eyes
and ears only for one another: the world with its grave events, its
intrigues and its wars fell quite away from them: they were the only
people existing--each for the other--for this one brief instant that
passed by.
The fire crackled in the huge hearth, and slowly the burning wood ashes
fell with a soft swishing sound one by one. But outside all was still:
not a sound of the busy life around the molens, of conspiracies and call
to arms, penetrated the dense veil of fog which lay upon the low-lying
land.
At last the prisoner spoke.
"'Tis easily done, mejuffrouw," he said, and all at once his whole face
lit up with that light-hearted gaiety, that keen sense of humour which
would no doubt follow him to the grave, "that assurance I can easily
give you. I was the sole criminal in the hideous outrage which brought
so much sorrow upon you. Had I the least hope that God would hear the
prayer of so despicable a villain as I am I would beg of Him to grant
you oblivion of my deed. As for me," he added and now real laughter was
dancing in his eyes: they mocked and challenged and called back the joy
of life, "as for me, I am impenitent. I would not forget one minute of
the last four days."
"To-morrow then you can take the remembrance with you to the gallows,"
said Stoutenburg sullenly.
Though a sense of intense relief pervaded him now, since by his
assertions Diogenes had completely vindicated him as well as Nicolaes in
Gilda's sight, his dark face showed no signs of brightening. That fierce
jealousy of this nameless adventurer which had assailed him awhile ago
was gnawing at his heart more insistently than before; he could not
combat it, even though reason itself argued that jealousy of so mean a
knave was unworthy, and that Gilda's compassion was only the same that
she would have extended to any dog that had been hurt.
Even now--reason still argued--was it not natural that she should plead
for the villain just as any tender-natured woman would plead even for a
thief. Women hate the thought of violent death, only an amazon would
desire to mete out death to any enemy: Gilda was warm-hearted,
impulsive, the ugly word "gallows" grated no doubt unpleasantly on her
ear. But even so, and despite the dictates of reason, Stoutenburg's
jealousy and hatred were up in arms the moment she turned pleading eyes
upon him.
"My lord," she said gently, "I pray you to remember that by this open
confession this ... this gentleman has caused me infinite happiness. I
cannot tell you what misery my own suspicions have caused me these past
two days. They were harder to bear than any humiliation or sorrow which
I had to endure."
"This varlet's lies confirmed you in your suspicions, Gilda," retorted
Stoutenburg roughly, "and his confession--practically at the foot of the
gallows--is but a tardy one."
"Do not speak so cruelly, my lord," she pleaded, "you say that ... that
you have some regard for me ... let not therefore my prayer fall
unheeded on your ear...."
"Your prayer, Gilda?"
"My prayer that you deal nobly with an enemy, whose wrongs to me I am
ready to forgive...."
"By St. Bavon, mejuffrouw," here interposed the prisoner firmly, "an
mine ears do not deceive me you are even now pleading for my life with
the Lord of Stoutenburg."
"Indeed, sir, I do plead for it with my whole heart," she said
earnestly.
"Ye gods!" he exclaimed, "an ye do not interfere!"
"My lord!" urged Gilda gently, "for my sake...."
Her words, her look, the tears that despite her will had struggled to
her eyes, scattered to the winds Stoutenburg's reasoning powers. He felt
now that nothing while this man lived would ever still that newly-risen
passion of jealousy. He longed for and desired this man's death more
even than that of the Prince of Orange. His honour had been luckily
white-washed before Gilda by this very man whom he hated. He had a
feeling that within the last half-hour he had made enormous strides in
her regard. Already he persuaded himself that she was looking on him
more kindly, as if remorse at her unjust suspicions of him had touched
her soul on his behalf.
Everything now would depend on how best he could seem noble and generous
in her sight; but he was more determined than ever that his enemy should
stand disgraced before her first and die on the gallows on the morrow.
Then it was that putting up his hand to the region of his heart, which
indeed was beating furiously, it encountered the roll of parchment
which lay in the inner pocket of his doublet. Fate, chance, his own
foresight, were indeed making the way easy for him, and quicker than
lightning his tortuous brain had already formed a plan upon which he
promptly acted now.
"Gilda," he said quietly, "though God knows how ready I am to do you
service in all things, this is a case where weakness on my part would be
almost criminal, for indeed it would be to a hardened and abandoned
criminal that I should be extending that mercy for which you plead."
"Indeed, my lord," she retorted coldly, "though only a woman, I too can
judge if a man is an abandoned criminal or merely a misguided human
creature who doth deserve mercy since his confession was quite open and
frank."
"Commonsense did prompt him no doubt to this half-confession," said
Stoutenburg dryly, "or a wise instinct to win leniency by his conduct,
seeing that he had no proofs wherewith to substantiate his former lies.
Am I not right, fellow?" he added once more turning to the prisoner,
"though you were forced to own that you alone are responsible for the
outrage against the jongejuffrouw, you have not told her yet that you
are also a forger and a thief."
Diogenes looked on him for a moment or two in silence, just long enough
to force Stoutenburg's shifty eyes to drop with a sudden and involuntary
sense of shame, then he rejoined with his usual good-humoured flippancy:
"It was a detail which had quite escaped my memory. No doubt your
Magnificence is fully prepared to rectify the omission."
"Indeed I wish that I could have spared you this additional disgrace,"
retorted Stoutenburg, whose sense of shame had indeed been only
momentary, "seeing that anyhow you must hang to-morrow. But," he added
once more to the jongejuffrouw, "I could not bear you to think, Gilda,
that I could refuse you anything which it is in my power to grant you.
Before you plead for this scoundrel again, you ought to know that he has
tried by every means in his power--by lying and by forgery--to fasten
the origin of all this infamy upon your brother."
"Upon Nicolaes," she cried, "I'll not believe it. A moment ago he did
vindicate him freely."
"Only because I had at last taken away from him the proofs which he had
forged."
"The proofs? what do you mean, my lord?"
"When my men captured this fellow last night, they found upon him a
paper--a bond which is an impudent forgery--purported to have been
written by Nicolaes and which promised payment to this knave for laying
hands upon you in Haarlem."
"A bond?" she murmured, "signed by Nicolaes?"
"I say it again, 'tis an impudent forgery," declared Stoutenburg hotly,
"we--all of us who have seen it and who know Nicolaes' signature could
see at a glance that this one was counterfeit. Yet the fellow used it,
he obtained money on the strength of it, for beside the jewelry which he
had filched from you, we found several hundred guilders upon his person.
Liar, forger, thief!" he cried, "in Holland such men are broken on the
wheel. Hanging is thought merciful for such damnable scum as they!"
And from out the pocket of his doublet he drew the paper which had been
writ by the public scrivener and was signed with Nicolaes' cypher
signature: he handed it to Gilda, even whilst the prisoner, throwing
back his head, sent one of his heartiest laughs echoing through the
raftered room.
"Well played, my lord!" he said gaily, "nay! but by the devils whom you
serve so well, you do indeed deserve to win."
In the meanwhile Gilda, wide-eyed and horrified, not knowing what to
think, nor yet what to believe, scarcely dared to touch the infamous
document whose very presence in her lap seemed a pollution. She noticed
that some portion of the paper had been torn off, but the wording of the
main portion of the writing was quite clear as was the signature
"Schwarzer Kato" with the triangle above it. On this she looked now with
a curious mixture of loathing and of fear. Schwarzer Kato was the name
of the tulip which her father had raised and named: the triangle was a
mark which the house of Beresteyn oft used in business.
"O God, have mercy upon me!" she murmured inwardly, "what does all this
treachery mean?"
She looked up from one man to the other. The Lord of Stoutenburg, dark
and sullen, was watching her with restless eyes; the prisoner was
smiling, gently, almost self-deprecatingly she thought, and as he met
her frightened glance it seemed as if in his merry eyes there crept a
look of sadness--even of pity.
"What does all this treachery mean?" she murmured again with pathetic
helplessness, and this time just above her breath.
"It means," said Stoutenburg roughly, "that at last you must be
convinced that this man on whom you have wasted your kindly pity is
utterly unworthy of it. That bond was never written by your brother, it
was never signed by him. But we found it on this villain's person; he
has been trading on it, obtaining money on the strength of his forgery.
He has confessed to you that he had no accomplice, no paymaster in his
infamies, then ask him whence came this bond in his possession, whence
the money which we found upon him. Ask him to deny the fact that less
than twenty-four hours after he had laid hands on you, he was back again
in Haarlem, bargaining with your poor, stricken father to bring you back
to him."
He ceased speaking, almost choked now by his own eloquence, and the
rapidity with which the lying words escaped his lips. And Gilda slowly
turned her head toward the prisoner, and met that subtly-ironical,
good-humoured glance again.
"Is this all true, sir?" she asked.
"What, mejuffrouw?" he retorted.
"That this bond promising you payment for the cruel outrage upon me is a
forgery?"
"His Magnificence says so, mejuffrouw," he replied quietly, "surely you
know best if you can believe him."
"But this is not my brother's signature?" she asked: and she herself was
not aware what an infinity of pleading there was in her voice.
"No!" he replied emphatically, "it is not your brother's signature."
"Then it's a forgery?"
"We will leave it at that, mejuffrouw," he said, "that it is a forgery."
A sigh, hoarse and passionate in its expression of infinite relief,
escaped the Lord of Stoutenburg's lips. Though he knew that the man in
any case could have no proof if he accused Nicolaes, yet there was great
satisfaction in this unqualified confession. Slowly the prisoner turned
his head and looked upon his triumphant enemy, and it was the man with
the pinioned arms, with the tattered clothes and the stained shirt who
seemed to tower in pride, in swagger and in defiance while the other
looked just what he was--a craven and miserable cur.
Once more there was silence in the low-raftered room. From Gilda's eyes
the tears fell slowly one by one. She could not have told you herself
why she was crying at this moment. Her brother's image stood out clearly
before her wholly vindicated of treachery, and a scoundrel had been
brought to his knees, self-confessed as a liar, a forger and a thief;
the Lord of Stoutenburg was proved to have been faithful and true, and
yet Gilda felt such a pain in her heart that she thought it must break.
The Lord of Stoutenburg at last broke the silence which had become
oppressive.
"Are you satisfied, Gilda?" he asked tenderly.
"I feel happier," she replied softly, "than I have felt these four days
past, at thought that my own brother at least--nor you, my lord--had a
hand in all this treachery."
She would not look again on the prisoner, even though she felt more than
she saw, that a distinctly humorous twinkle had once more crept into his
eyes. It seemed however, as if she wished to say something else,
something kind and compassionate, but Stoutenburg broke in impatiently:
"May I dismiss the fellow now?" he asked. "Jan is waiting for orders
outside."
"Then I pray you call to Jan," she rejoined stiffly.
"The rogue is securely pinioned," he added even as he turned toward the
door. "I pray you have no fear of him."
"I have no fear," she said simply.
Stoutenburg strode out of the room and anon his harsh voice was heard
calling to Jan.
For a moment then Gilda was alone--for the third time now--with the man
whom she had hated more than she had ever hated a human creature before.
She remembered how last night and again at Leyden she had been conscious
of an overpowering desire to wound him with hard and bitter words. But
now she no longer felt that desire, since Fate had hurt him more cruelly
than she had wished to do. He was standing there now before her, in all
the glory of his magnificent physique, yet infinitely shamed and
disgraced, self-confessed of every mean and horrible crime that has ever
degraded manhood.
Yet in spite of this shame he still looked splendid and untamed: though
his arms were bound to a pinion behind his back, his broad chest was
not sunken, and he held himself very erect with that leonine head of his
thrown well back and a smile of defiance, almost of triumph, sat upon
every line of his face.
Anon she met his eyes; their glance compelled and held her own. There
was nothing but kindly humour within their depths. Humour, ye gods!
whence came the humour of the situation! Here was a man condemned to
death by an implacable enemy who was not like to show any mercy, and
Gilda herself--remembering all his crimes--could no longer bring herself
to ask for mercy for him, and yet the man seemed only to mock, to smile
at fate, to take his present desperate position as lightly and as airily
as another would take a pleasing turn of fortune's wheel.
Conscious at last that his look of unconquerable good-humour was working
upon her nerves, Gilda forced herself to break the spell of numbness
which had so unaccountably fallen upon her.
"I should like to say to you, sir," she murmured, "how deeply I regret
the many harsh words I spoke to you at Leyden and ... and also last
night ... believe me there was no feeling in me of cruelty toward you
when I spoke them."
"Indeed, mejuffrouw," he rejoined placidly, whilst the gentle mockery in
his glance became more accentuated, "indeed I am sure that your
harshness towards me was only dictated by your kindliness. Believe me,"
he added lightly, "your words that evening at Leyden, and again last
night were most excellent discipline for my temper: for this do I thank
you! they have helped me to bear subsequent events with greater
equanimity."
She bit her lip, feeling vexed at his flippancy. A man on the point of
death should take the last hours of his life more seriously.
"It grieved me to see," she resumed somewhat more stiffly, "that one who
could on occasions be so brave, should on others stoop to such infamous
tricks."
"Man is ever a creature of opportunity, mejuffrouw," he said
imperturbably.
"But I remembered you--you see--on New Year's Eve in the Dam Straat when
you held up a mob to protect an unfortunate girl; oh! it was bravely
done!"
"Yet believe me, mejuffrouw," he said with a whimsical smile, "that
though I own appearances somewhat belie me, I have done better since."
"I wish I could believe you, sir. But since then ... oh! think of my
horror when I recognized you the next day--at Leyden--after your
cowardly attack upon me."
"Indeed I have thought of it already, mejuffrouw. Dondersteen! I must
have appeared a coward before you then!"
He gave a careless shrug of the shoulders, and very quaintly did that
carelessness sit on him now that he was pinioned, wounded and in a
relentless enemy's hands.
"Perhaps I am a coward," he added with a strange little sigh, "you think
so; the Lord of Stoutenburg declares that I am a miserable cur. Does man
ever know himself? I for one have never been worth the study."
"Nay, sir, there you do wrong yourself," she said gently, "I cannot
rightly gauge what temptations did beset you when you laid hands upon a
defenceless woman, or when you forged my brother's name ... for this you
did do, did you not?" she asked insistently.
"Have I not confessed to it?" he retorted quietly.
"Alas! And for these crimes must I despise you," she added quaintly.
"But since then my mind hath been greatly troubled. Something tells
me--and would to God I saw it all more clearly--that much that you so
bravely endure just now, is somehow because of me. Am I wrong?"
He laughed, a dry, gentle, self-mocking laugh.
"That I have endured much because of you, mejuffrouw," he said gaily,
"I'll not deny; my worthy patron St. Bavon being singularly slack in his
protection of me on two or three memorable occasions; but this does not
refer to my present state, which has come about because half a dozen men
fell upon me when I was unarmed and pounded at me with heavy steel
skates, which they swung by their straps. The skates were good weapons,
I must own, and have caused one or two light wounds which are but scraps
of evil fortune that a nameless adventurer like myself must take along
with kindlier favours. So I pray you, mejuffrouw, have no further
thought of my unpleasant bodily condition. I have been through worse
plights than this before, and if to-morrow I must hang...."
"No, no!" she interrupted with a cry of horror, "that cannot and must
not be."
"Indeed it can and must, mejuffrouw. Ask the Lord of Stoutenburg what
his intentions are."
"Oh! but I can plead with him," she declared. "He hath told me things
to-day which have made me very happy. My heart is full of forgiveness
for you, who have wronged me so, and I would feel happy in pleading for
you."
Something that she said appeared to tickle his fancy, for at her words
he threw his head right back and laughed immoderately, loudly and long.
"Ye gods!" he cried, while she--a little frightened and puzzled--looked
wide-eyed upon him--"let me hear those words ringing in mine ears when
the rope is round my neck. The Lord of Stoutenburg hath the power to
make a woman happy! the words he speaks are joy unto her heart! Oh! ye
gods, let me remember this and laugh at it until I die!"
His somewhat wild laugh had not ceased to echo in the low-raftered room
nor had Gilda time to recover her composure, before the door was thrown
violently open and the Lord of Stoutenburg re-entered, followed by Jan
and a group of men.
He threw a quick, suspicious glance on Gilda and on Diogenes, the latter
answered him with one of good-humoured irony, but Gilda--pale and
silent--turned her head away.
Stoutenburg then pointed to Diogenes.
"Here is your prisoner," he said to Jan, "take him back to the place
from whence you brought him. Guard him well, Jan, for to-morrow he must
hang and remember that your life shall pay for his if he escapes."
Jan thereupon gave a brief word of command, the men ranged themselves
around the prisoner, whose massive figure was thus completely hidden
from Gilda's view; only--towering above the heads of the soldiers--the
wide sweep of the brow caught a glimmer of light from the flickering
lamp overhead.
Soon the order was given. The small knot of men turned and slowly filed
out. The Lord of Stoutenburg was the last to leave. He bowed nearly to
the ground when he finally left Gilda's presence.
And she remained alone, sitting by the fire, and staring into the
smouldering ashes. She had heard news to-night that flooded her soul
with happiness. Her brother whom she loved was innocent of crime, and
God Himself had interfered. He had touched the heart of the Lord of
Stoutenburg and stopped the infamous plot against the Stadtholder's
life. Yet Gilda's heart was unaccountably heavy, and as she sat on,
staring into the fire, heavy tears fell unheeded from her eyes.