"No! one never does know," broke in the prisoner airily, "for of a truth when there's murder to be done, pillage or outrage, the Lord of Stoutenburg never knows what other infamy may come to his hand."
"Insolent knave!" exclaimed Stoutenburg hoarsely, as with a cry of unbridled fury he suddenly raised his arm and with the parchment roll which he held, he struck the prisoner savagely in the face.
"Take care, Stoutenburg," ejaculated Beresteyn almost involuntarily.
"Take care of what," retorted the other with a harsh laugh, "the fellow is helpless, thank God! and I would gladly break my riding whip across his impudent face."
He was livid and shaking with fury. Beresteyn—honestly fearing that in his blind rage he would compromise his dignity before his subordinates—dragged him by the arm away from the presence of this man whom he appeared to hate with such passionate intensity.
Stoutenburg, obdurate at first, almost drunk with his own fury, tried to free himself from his friend's grasp. He wanted to lash the man he hated once more in the face, to gloat for awhile longer on the sight of his enemy now completely in his power. But all around in the gloom he perceived figures that moved; the soldiers and mercenaries placed at his disposal by his friends were here in numbers: some of them had been put on guard over the prisoner by Jan, and others had joined them, attracted by loud voices.
Stoutenburg had just enough presence of mind left in him to realize that the brutal striking of a defenceless prisoner would probably horrify these men, who were fighters and not bullies, and might even cause them to turn from their allegiance to him.
So with desperate effort he pulled himself together and contrived to give with outward calm some final orders to Jan.
"See that the ropes are securely fastened, Jan," he said, "leave half a dozen men on guard, then follow me."
But to Beresteyn, who had at last succeeded in dragging him away from this spot, he said loudly: