e foot of the gallows--Maria screaming,
the sledge in wait, the horses ready to start.

"My God, I had not thought of that," he cried, "Jan! Nicolaes! in
Heaven's name! Gilda! After me! quick!"

And then he starts to run, skirting the palisade in the direction whence
come now quite distinctly that ceaseless rattle, that jingle and
stamping of the ground which proclaims the presence of horses on the
point of departure.

"Jan, in Heaven's name, follow me!" cries Stoutenburg, pausing one
instant ere he rounds the corner of the palisade. "Nicolaes, leave that
abominable knave! Gilda, I tell you! Gilda! They are carrying her away!"

Jan already has obeyed, grasping his sword he does not pause to think.
My lord has called and 'tis my lord whom he follows. He runs after
Stoutenburg as fast as his tired limbs will allow. Heemskerk, forgetting
his own fears in the excitement of this hand-to-hand combat, follows in
their wake.

Nicolaes, too, at Stoutenburg's call, is ready to follow him.

He turns to run when a grasp of iron falls upon his arm, holding it like
a vice. He could have screamed with the pain, and the sword which he
held falls out of his nerveless fingers. The next moment he feels
himself dragged by that same iron grasp through the open door into the
hut, and hears the door slammed to and locked behind him.

"Your pardon if I have been rough, mynheer," said Diogenes' pleasant
voice, "but there was no time to argue outside that door and you seemed
in such a mighty hurry to run straight into that yawning abyss of
disgrace."

The grasp upon his arm had not relaxed, but it no longer hurt. Yet it
was so firm and so absolute that Nicolaes felt powerless to wrench
himself away.

"Let me go!" he cried hoarsely.

"Not just yet, mynheer," rejoined Diogenes coolly, "not while this hot
temper is upon you. Let the Lord of Stoutenburg and our friend Jan fight
to their heart's content with a fat philosopher who is well able to hold
his own against them, while the other who is lean and a moderately good
coachman sees that a pair of horses do not rear and bolt during the
fray."

"Let me go, man, I tell you," cried Beresteyn who was making frantic
efforts to free himself from that slender white grapnel which held his
arm as in a vice.

"One moment longer, mynheer, and you shall go. The horses of which I
speak are harnessed to a sledge wherein is the jongejuffrouw your
sister."

"Yes! verdommte Keerl! let me get to he