"Are you satisfied, Gilda?" he asked tenderly.
"I feel happier," she replied softly, "than I have felt these four days past, at thought that my own brother at least—nor you, my lord—had a hand in all this treachery."
She would not look again on the prisoner, even though she felt more than she saw, that a distinctly humorous twinkle had once more crept into his eyes. It seemed however, as if she wished to say something else, something kind and compassionate, but Stoutenburg broke in impatiently:
"May I dismiss the fellow now?" he asked. "Jan is waiting for orders outside."
"Then I pray you call to Jan," she rejoined stiffly.
"The rogue is securely pinioned," he added even as he turned toward the door. "I pray you have no fear of him."
"I have no fear," she said simply.
Stoutenburg strode out of the room and anon his harsh voice was heard calling to Jan.
For a moment then Gilda was alone—for the third time now—with the man whom she had hated more than she had ever hated a human creature before. She remembered how last night and again at Leyden she had been conscious of an overpowering desire to wound him with hard and bitter words. But now she no longer felt that desire, since Fate had hurt him more cruelly than she had wished to do. He was standing there now before her, in all the glory of his magnificent physique, yet infinitely shamed and disgraced, self-confessed of every mean and horrible crime that has ever degraded manhood.
Yet in spite of this shame he still looked splendid and untamed: though his arms were bound to a pinion behind his back, his broad chest was not sunken, and he held himself very erect with that leonine head of his thrown well back and a smile of defiance, almost of triumph, sat upon every line of his face.