was proved to have been faithful and true, and
yet Gilda felt such a pain in her heart that she thought it must break.

The Lord of Stoutenburg at last broke the silence which had become
oppressive.

"Are you satisfied, Gilda?" he asked tenderly.

"I feel happier," she replied softly, "than I have felt these four days
past, at thought that my own brother at least--nor you, my lord--had a
hand in all this treachery."

She would not look again on the prisoner, even though she felt more than
she saw, that a distinctly humorous twinkle had once more crept into his
eyes. It seemed however, as if she wished to say something else,
something kind and compassionate, but Stoutenburg broke in impatiently:

"May I dismiss the fellow now?" he asked. "Jan is waiting for orders
outside."

"Then I pray you call to Jan," she rejoined stiffly.

"The rogue is securely pinioned," he added even as he turned toward the
door. "I pray you have no fear of him."

"I have no fear," she said simply.

Stoutenburg strode out of the room and anon his harsh voice was heard
calling to Jan.

For a moment then Gilda was alone--for the third time now--with the man
whom she had hated more than she had ever hated a human creature before.
She remembered how last night and again at Leyden she had been conscious
of an overpowering desire to wound him with hard and bitter words. But
now she no longer felt that desire, since Fate had hurt him more cruelly
than she had wished to do. He was standing there now before her, in all
the glory of his magnificent physique, yet infinitely shamed and
disgraced, self-confessed of every mean and horrible crime that has ever
degraded manhood.

Yet in spite of this shame he still looked splendid and untamed: though
his arms were bound to a pinion behind his back, his broad chest was
not sunken, and he held himself very erect with that leonine head of his
thrown well back and a smile of defiance, almost of triumph, sat upon

every line of his face.

Anon she met his eyes; their glance compelled and held her own. There
was nothing but kindly humour within their depths. Humour, ye gods!
whence came the humour of the situation! Here was a man condemned to
death by an implacable enemy who was not like to show any mercy, and
Gilda herself--remembering all his crimes--could no longer bring herself
to ask for mercy for him, and yet the man seemed only to mock, to smile
at fate, to take his present desperate position as