"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.