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.