teady 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."

Noiselessly she glided across the room, dragging him after her by the
hand. She pulled aside the bed-curtains, without a word pointed to the
recess. The bed, built into the wall, was narrow but sure; it smelt
sweetly of lavender; the hunted man, his very senses blurred by that
overwhelming desire to save his life at any cost, accepted the shelter
so innocently offered him. Gathering his long limbs together, he was
soon hidden underneath the coverlet.

"Gilda!" came more insistently from behind the heavy door.

"One moment, father. I was fastening my gown."

"Don't trouble to do that. I only wished to say good-night."

She pulled the curtains together very carefully in front of the bed: she
even took the precaution of taking off her stiff collar and embroidered
corslet. Then she lighted one of the candles, and with it in her hand
she went to the door.

Then she drew back the bolt.

"May I not come in?" said Mynheer Beresteyn gaily, for she remained
standing on the threshold.

"Well no, father!" she replied, "my room is very untidy ... I was just
getting into bed...."

"Just getting into bed," he retorted with a laugh, "why, child, you have
not begun to undress."

"I wished to undress in the dark. My head aches terribly ... it must be
the spring air ... Good-night, dear."

"Good-night, little one!" said Beresteyn, as he kissed his daughter
tenderly. "Nicolaes has just come home," he added, "he wanted to see you
too."

"Ask him to wait till to-morrow then. My head feels heavy. I can
scarcely hold it up."

"You are not ill, little one?" asked the father anxiously.

"No, no ... only oppressed with this first hot breath of spring."

"Why is not