She ministered to him kindly and gently, first holding the water to his lips, then when he had quenched that raging thirst, she pulled the table up close to his chair, and gave him milk to drink and bread and meat to eat. He seemed quite dazed, conscious only of bodily needs, for he ate and drank ravenously without thought at first of thanking her. Only when he had finished did he lean back once again against the cushions which her kindly hand had placed behind him, and he murmured feebly like a tired but satisfied child: "You are an angel of goodness, Gilda. Had you not helped me to-night, I should either have perished in a ditch, or fallen in the hands of the Stadholder's minions." Quickly she put a restraining hand on his shoulder. A firm step had echoed in the flagged corridor beyond the oaken door. "My father!" she whispered. In a moment the instinct for life and liberty was fully aroused in the fugitive; his apathy and exhaustion were forgotten; terror, mad, unreasoning terror, had once more taken possession of his mind. "Hide me, Gilda," he entreated hoarsely, and his hands clutched wildly at her gown, "don't let him see me ... he would give me up ... he would give me up...." "Hush, in the name of God," she commanded, "he will hear you if you speak." Swiftly she blew out the candles, then with dilated anxious eyes searched the recesses of the room for a hiding-place--the cupboard which was too small--the wide hearth which was too exposed--the bed in the wall.... His knees had given way under him, and, as he clutched at her gown, he fell forward at her feet, and remained there crouching, trembling, his circled eyes trying to pierce the surrounding gloom, to locate the position of the door behind which lurked the most immediate danger. "Hide me, Gilda," he murmured almost audibly under his breath, "for the love you bore me once." "Gilda!" came in a loud, kindly voice from the other side of the door. "Yes, father!" "You are not yet abed, are you, my girl?" "I have just blown out the candles, dear," she contrived to reply with a fairly steady voice. "Why is your door locked?" "I was a little nervous to-night, father dear. I don't know why." "Well! open then! and say good-night." "One moment, dear." She was white to the lips, white as the gown which fell in straight heavy folds from her hips, and which Stoutenburg was still clutching with convulsive fingers. Alone her white figure detached itself from the darkness around. The wretched man as he looked up could see her small pale head, the stiff collar that rose above her shoulders, her embroidered corslet, and the row of pearls round her neck. "Save me, Gilda," he repeated with the agony of despair, "do not let your father hand me over to the Stadtholder ... there will be no mercy for me, Gilda ... hide me ... for the love of God."