"Gilda!" came in a loud, kindly voice from the other side of the door.
"Yes, father!"
"You are not yet abed, are you, my girl?"
"I have just blown out the candles, dear," she contrived to reply with a fairly steady voice.
"Why is your door locked?"
"I was a little nervous to-night, father dear. I don't know why."
"Well! open then! and say good-night."
"One moment, dear."
She was white to the lips, white as the gown which fell in straight heavy folds from her hips, and which Stoutenburg was still clutching with convulsive fingers. Alone her white figure detached itself from the darkness around. The wretched man as he looked up could see her small pale head, the stiff collar that rose above her shoulders, her embroidered corslet, and the row of pearls round her neck.
"Save me, Gilda," he repeated with the agony of despair, "do not let your father hand me over to the Stadtholder ... there will be no mercy for me, Gilda ... hide me ... for the love of God."