The Laughing Cavalier Baroness Orczy (bill gates books recommendations txt) 📖

of night with an appeal upon your lips, yet you were not afraid, then you struck me in the face like you would a dog with a whip, and you were no more afraid of me than of the dog whom you had thrashed. So base am I then that words of mine are not worthy of your ear. Whatever I said, I could not persuade you that for one man to measure his strength against twelve others were not an act of valour, but one of senseless foolishness. I might tell you that bravery lies oft in prudence but seldom in foolhardiness, but this I know you are not in a mood now to believe. I might even tell you,” he continued with a slight return to his wonted lighthearted carelessness, “I might tell you that certain acts of bravery cannot be accomplished without the intervention of protecting saints, and that I have found St. Bavon an admirable saint to implore in such cases, but this I fear me you are not like to understand. So you see, mejuffrouw, that whatever I said I could not prove to you that I am less of a blackguard than I seem.”

“You could at least prove it to this extent,” she retorted, “by keeping silence over what you may have guessed.”

“You mean that I must not sell the secret which you so nearly betrayed⁠ ⁠… have no fear, mejuffrouw, my knowledge of it is so scanty that the Stadtholder would not give me five guilders for it.”

“Will you swear.⁠ ⁠…”

“Such a miserable cur as I am, mejuffrouw,” he said lightly, “is surely an oath-breaker as well as a liar and a thief⁠—what were the good of swearing?⁠ ⁠… But I’ll swear an you wish⁠ ⁠…” he added gaily.

“Surely you⁠ ⁠…” she began.

But with a quick gesture he interrupted her.

“Dondersteen, mejuffrouw,” he said more firmly than he had yet spoken before, “if beauty in you is tempered with pity, I entreat you to spare me now: even knaves remember become men sometimes and my patron Saint Bavon threatens to leave me in the lurch.”

He held open the door for her to pass through, and gravely held out one of the pewter candles to her. She could not help but take it, though indeed she felt that the last word between that rogue and herself had not by any means been spoken yet. But she hardly looked at him as she sailed past him out of the room, her heavy skirt trailing behind her with a soft hissing sound.

As soon as she heard the door shut to behind her, she ran up the stairs back to her own room with all speed, like a frightened hare.

Had she remained in the passage one instant longer she would have heard a sound which would have terrified her; it was the sound of a prolonged and ringing laugh which roused the echoes of this sleeping house, but which had neither mirth nor joy in its tone, and had she then peeped through a keyhole she would have seen a strange sight. A man who in the flickering candlelight looked tall and massive as a giant took up one of the wooden chairs in the room, and after holding it out at arm’s length for a few seconds, he proceeded to smash it viciously bit by bit until it lay a mass of broken debris at his feet.

XXXI The Molens

Less than half a league to the southeast of Ryswyk⁠—there where the Schie makes a sharp curve up toward the north⁠—there is a solitary windmill⁠—strange in this, that it has no companions near it, but stands quite alone with its adjoining miller’s hut nestling close up against it like a tiny chick beside the mother hen, and dominates the mud flats and lean pastures which lie for many leagues around.

On this day which was the fourth of the New Year, these mud flats and the pasture land lay under a carpet of half-melted snow and ice which seemed to render the landscape more weird and desolate, and the molens itself more deserted and solitary. Yet less than half a league away the pointed gables and wooden spires of Ryswyk break the monotony of the horizon line and suggest the life and movement pertaining to a city, however small. But life and movement never seem to penetrate as far as this molens; they spread their way out toward ’S Graven Hage and the sea.

Nature herself hath decreed that the molens shall remain solitary and cut off from the busy world, for day after day and night after night throughout the year a mist rises from the mud flats around and envelops the molens as in a shroud. In winter the mist is frosty, in summer at times it is faintly tinged with gold, but it is always there and through it the rest of the living world⁠—Ryswyk and ’S Graven Hage and Delft further away only appear as visions on the other side of a veil.

Just opposite the molens, some two hundred paces away to the east, the waters of the Schie rush with unwonted swiftness round the curve; so swiftly in fact that the ice hardly ever forms a thick crust over them, and this portion of an otherwise excellent waterway is⁠—in the winter⁠—impracticable for sleighs.

Beyond this bend in the river, however, less than half a league away, there is a wooden bridge, wide and strongly built, across which it is quite easy for men and beasts to pass who have come from the south and desire to rejoin the great highway which leads from Delft to Leyden.

In the morning of that same fourth day in the New Year, two men sat together in what was once the weighing-room of the molens; their fur coats were wrapped closely round their shoulders, for a keen northwesterly wind had