"Now put on your dress too, Maria," she said when she was ready, "and tell my father, who is either in the tap-room down below or hath already retired to his room, that I desire to speak with him." And Maria, bewildered and flustered, had no option but to obey. CHAPTER XLIV BLAKE OF BLAKENEY While Maria completed a hasty toilet, Gilda's instinct had drawn her back once more to the open window. The light from the room below was still reflected on the opposite wall, and from the tap-room the buzz of voices had not altogether ceased. Cornelius Beresteyn was speaking now: "Indeed," he said, "it will be the one consolation left to me, since you do reject my friendship, sir." "Not your friendship, sir--only your money," interposed Diogenes. "Well! you do speak of lifelong parting. But your two friends have indeed deserved well of me. Without their help no doubt you, sir, first and then my dearly loved daughter would have fallen victims to that infamous Stoutenburg. Will a present of twenty thousand guilders each gratify them, do you think?" A ringing laugh roused the echoes of the sleeping hostelry. "Twenty thousand guilders! ye gods!" exclaimed Diogenes merrily. "Pythagoras, dost hear, old bladder-face? Socrates, my robin, dost realize it? Twenty thousand guilders each in your pockets, old compeers. Lord! how drunk you will both be to-morrow." Out of the confused hubbub that ensued Gilda could disentangle nothing definite; there was a good deal of shouting and clapping of pewter mugs against a table, and through it all that irresponsible, infectious laughter which--strangely enough--had to Gilda's ears at this moment a curious tone, almost of bitterness, as if its merriment was only forced. Then when the outburst of gaiety had somewhat subsided she once more heard her father's voice. Maria was dressed by this time, and now at a word from Gilda was ready to go downstairs and to deliver the jongejuffrouw's message to her father. "You spoke so lightly just now, sir, of dying in a ditch or palace," Cornelius Beresteyn was saying, "but you did tell me that day in Haarlem that you had kith and kindred in England. Where is that father of whom you spoke, and your mother who is a saint? Your irresponsible vagabondage will leave her in perpetual loneliness." "My mother is dead, sir," said Diogenes quietly, "my father broke her heart." "Even then he hath a right to know that his son is a brave and loyal gentleman." "He will only know that when his son is dead." "That was a cruel dictum, sir." "Not so cruel as that which left my mother to starve in the streets of Haarlem." "Aye! ten thousand times more cruel, since your dear mother, sir, had not to bear the awful burden of lifelong remorse." "Bah!" rejoined the philosopher with a careless shrug of the shoulders, "a man seldom feels remorse for wrongs committed against a woman." "But he doth for those committed against his flesh and blood--his son----"