of ashes, and there was no trace of his wonted smile around his
lips: the eyes too looked sunken and their light was hid beneath the
drooping lids. Her shafts which she had aimed with such deadly precision
had gone home at last: in the bitterness of her heart she apparently had
found words which had cut him like a lash.

Satisfied at least in this she rose to go.

"There is nothing more to say," she said as calmly as she could, trying
to still the quivering of her lips: "as you say, Mynheer Ben Isaje has
carefully taken the measure of your valour and it cannot come up to a
dozen picked men, even though life and honour, country and faith might
demand at least an effort on their behalf. I pray you open the door. I
would--for mine own sake as well as your own--that I had not thought of
breaking in on your rest."

Without a word he went to the door, and had his hand on the latch ready
to obey her, when something in his placid attitude irritated her beyond
endurance. Woman-like she was not yet satisfied: perhaps a thought of
remorse at her cruelty fretted her, perhaps she pitied him in that he
was so base.

Be that as it may, she spoke to him again:

"Have you nothing then to say?" she asked.

"What can I say, mejuffrouw?" he queried in reply, as the ghost of his
wonted smile crept swiftly back into his pale face.

"Methought no man would care to be called a coward by a woman, and
remain silent under the taunt."

"You forget, mejuffrouw," he retorted, "that I am so much less than a
man ... a menial, a rogue, a vagabond--so base that not even the
slightest fear of me did creep into your heart ... you came to me, here,
alone at dead of night with an appeal upon your lips, yet you were not
afraid, then you struck me in the face like you would a dog with a whip,
and you were no more afraid of me than of the dog whom you had thrashed.
So base am I then that words of mine are not worthy of your ear.
Whatever I said, I could not persuade you that for one man to measure
his strength against twelve others were not an act of valour, but one of
senseless foolishness. I might tell you that bravery lies oft in
prudence but seldom in foolhardiness, but this I know you are not in a
mood now to believe. I might even tell you," he continued with a slight
return to his wonted light-hearted carelessness, "I might tell you that
certain acts of bravery cannot be accomplished without the intervention
of protecting saints, and that I have