"Here, Pythagoras, Socrates! lift the mevrouw out of the sleigh and carry her up to the room which the landlord hath prepared for the ladies."
Maria immediately gave vent to violent shrieks of protest.
"How dare ye touch me!" she screamed at the top of her voice, "ye murdering devils dare but lay a finger on a respectable woman and God will punish you with pestilence and dislocation and ..."
It must be presumed that neither Pythagoras nor Socrates were greatly upset by the mevrouw's curses, for Gilda, who was on the alert for every movement and for every sound, was well aware that Maria's highly respectable person was presently seized by firm hands, that the shawl round her face was pressed more tightly against her mouth—for her screams sounded more muffled—and that despite her struggles, her cries and her kicking she was lifted bodily out of the sledge.
When these disquieting sounds had died down the same pleasant voice broke in once again on Gilda's obstinate silence.
"Mejuffrouw Beresteyn!" it reiterated once again.
"Dondersteen! but 'tis no use lying mum there, and pretending to be asleep," it continued after awhile, since Gilda certainly had taken no notice of the call, "that old woman made enough noise to wake the dead."
Still not a sound from Gilda, who—more like a cowering bird than ever—was trying with widely-dilated eyes to pierce the darkness around her, in order to see something of the enemy. She saw the outline of a plumed hat like a patch of ink against the sky above, and also a pair of very broad shoulders that were stooping toward the floor of the sledge.
"Hey!" shouted the enemy with imperturbable cheerfulness, "leave that door wide open, I'll carry the jongejuffrouw in myself. She seems to be unconscious."
The words roused Gilda out of her attitude of rigid silence,—the words which she looked on as an awful threat, and also the sensation that the loose bonds which had pinioned her down to the vehicle were being undone.