was making ready to go.

She threw him a strange look, half defiant yet almost reproachful.

"Perhaps!" she said curtly.

He took leave of her in his usual pleasant, airy manner, smiling at her
earnestness and at her looks that reminded him of a starving dog which
he had once picked up in the streets of Prague and kept and fed for a
time, until he found it a permanent home. When he gave the dog away to
some kindly people who promised to be kind to it, it threw him, at
parting, just such a look as dwelt in the dark depths of this girl's
eyes now.

The old cripple on the bed had fallen into a torpor-like sleep. Diogenes
cast a compassionate glance on him.

"Thou canst take him to better quarters in a day or two," he said, "and
mayhap give him some good food.... Dondersteen!" he exclaimed suddenly,
"what art doing, girl?"

She had stooped and kissed his hand. He drew it away almost roughly, but
at the timid look of humble apology which she raised to him, he said
gently:

"By St. Bavon thou'rt a funny child! Well? what is it now?" he asked,
for she stood hesitating before him, with a question obviously hovering
on her lips.

"I dare not," she murmured.

"Art afraid of me then?"

"A little."

"Yet there is something thou desirest to ask?"

"Yes."

"What is it? Quickly now, for I must be going."

She waited for a moment or two trying to gain courage, whilst he watched
her, greatly amused.

"What is it?" he reiterated more impatiently.

Then a whispered murmur escaped her lips.

"The lady?"

"Yes. What of her?"

"Thou dost love her?" she stammered, "and wilt abduct her to-night
because of thy love for her?"

For a second or two he looked on her in blank amazement, marvelling if
he had entrusted this vital business to a semi-imbecile. Then seeing
that indeed she appeared in deadly earnest, and that her great,
inquiring but perfectly lucid eyes were fixed upon him with mute
insistence, he threw back his head and laughed till the very rafters of
the low room shook with the echo of his merriment.

"Dondersteen!" he said as soon as he felt that he could speak again,
"but thou truly art a strange wench. Whatever did put that idea into thy
head?"

"Thou dost propose to abduct her, I know that," she said more firmly. "I
am no fool, and I understand I am to be the decoy. The dark passage, the
lonely spot, thy presence there ... and then the occurrence, as thou
saidst, that might surprise or frighten me.