, fellow?" he reiterated more
harshly as Diogenes stood there, seemingly not even hearing what the
Lord of Stoutenburg said, for his eyes in which a quaint light of humour
danced were fixed upon Gilda's hands that lay clasped upon her lap.

The look in the man's face, the soft pallor on the girl's cheek,
exasperated Stoutenburg's jealous temper beyond his power of control.

"Do you hear?" he shouted once more, and with a sudden grip of the hand
he pulled the prisoner roughly round by the shoulder. That shoulder had
been torn open with a blow dealt by a massive steel blade which had
lacerated it to the bone; even a philosopher's endurance was not proof
against this sudden rending of an already painful wound. Diogenes' pale
face became the colour of lead: the tiny room began dancing an
irresponsive saraband before his eyes, he felt himself swaying, for the
ground was giving way under him, when a cry, gentle and compassionate,
reached his fading senses, and a perfume of exquisite sweetness came to
his nostrils, even as his pinioned arms felt just enough support to
enable him to steady himself.

"Gilda," broke in Stoutenburg's harsh voice upon this intangible dream,
"I entreat you not to demean yourself by ministering to that rogue."

"My poor ministry was for a wounded man, my lord," she retorted curtly.

Then she turned once more to the prisoner.

"You are hurt, sir," she asked as she let her tender blue eyes rest with
kind pity upon him.

"Hurt, mejuffrouw?" he replied with a laugh, which despite himself had
but little merriment in it. "Ask his Magnificence there, he will tell
you that such knaves as I have bones and sinews as tough as their skins.
Of a truth I am not hurt, mejuffrouw ... only overcome with the humour
of this situation. The Lord of Stoutenburg indignant and reproachful at
thought that another man is proficient in the art of lying."

"By heaven," cried Stoutenburg who was white with fury. "Insolent
varlet, take...."

He had seized the first object that lay close to his hand, the heavy
iron tool used for raking the fire out of the huge earthenware stove;
this he raised above his head; the lust to kill glowed out of his eyes,
which had become bloodshot, whilst a thin red foam gathered at the
corners of his mouth. The next moment the life of a philosopher and
weaver of dreams would have been very abruptly ended, had not a woman's
feeble hand held up the crashing blow.

"Hatred, my lord, an you wil