eady, calmly spinning the threads of human destinies. But
there are some men in the world who have the power and the skill to take
their destinies in their own hands. The philosopher and weaver of
dreams, the merry Laughing Cavalier was one of these.

What the Lord of Stoutenburg had seen that he perceived equally quickly;
he, too, had caught sight of Jan, and of the two steel barrels
simultaneously levelled at him; he too, realized that the most skilled
swordsman is but a sorry match against a pair of bullets.

But while Beresteyn held his breath and Stoutenburg tried to steady the
trembling of his hand, he raised Bucephalus above his head and with a
wild shout pointed toward the southern horizon far away.

"The Stadtholder's guard!" he cried lustily, "they are on us! _Sauve qui
peut!_"

Three cries of mad terror rent the air, there was a double detonation, a
great deal of smoke. The horses in the sledge reared and plunged wildly,
forcing those who were nearest to the vehicle to beat a precipitate
retreat.

"At the horses' heads, you wooden-headed bladder," shouted Diogenes
lustily. Pythagoras did his best to obey, while Socrates was nearly
dragged off the box by the frightened horses. Heemskerk had already
incontinently taken to his heels. Jan had dropped his weapon which
Diogenes at once picked up. The Lord of Stoutenburg was preparing to
fire again.

"_Sauve qui peut_, my lord!" cried Diogenes, "before I change my mind
and put a hole through your heel, which will prevent your running away
fast enough to escape the Stadtholder's wrath."

There was another detonation. The horses reared and plunged again. When
Beresteyn once more obtained a clear view of the picture, he saw the
Lord of Stoutenburg stretched out on his back upon the ground in a
position that was anything but dignified and certainly very perilous,
for Diogenes towering above him was holding him by both feet. The tall
soldierly figure of the foreigner stood out clearly silhouetted against
the grey, misty light: his head with its wealth of unruly brown curls
was thrown back with a gesture that almost suggested boyish delight in
some impish mischief, whilst his infectious laugh echoed and re-echoed
against the walls of the molens and of the hut.

Jan was on his hands and knees crawling toward those two men--the
conqueror and the conquered--with no doubt a vague idea that he might
even now render assistance to my lord.

"Here, Pythagoras, old fat