o doubt, an you knew how to lay hands on him; you would be over ready
to denounce him to the Stadtholder for the sake of the blood-money which
you would receive for this act."

"Well played, my lord," retorted Diogenes with a ringing laugh.
"Dondersteen! but you apparently think me a fool as well as a knave. Lay
my hands on the Lord of Stoutenburg did you say? By St. Bavon, have I
not done so already? aye! and made him lick the dust, too, at my feet? I
could sell him to the Stadtholder without further trouble--denounce him
even now to the authorities only that I do not happen to be a vendor of
swine-flesh--or else...."

A double cry interrupted the flow of Diogenes' wrathful eloquence: a cry
of rage from Stoutenburg and one of terror from the girl, who all this
while--not understanding the cause and purport of the quarrel between
the two men--had been cowering in a remote corner of the room anxious
only to avoid observation, fearful lest she should be seen.

But now she suddenly ran forward, swift as a deer, unerring as a cat,
and the next moment she had thrown herself on the upraised arm of
Stoutenburg in whose hand gleamed the sharp steel of his dagger.

"Murder!" she cried in a frenzy of borrow. "Save thyself! he will murder
thee!"

Diogenes, as was his wont, threw back his head and sent his merry laugh
echoing through the tumble-down house from floor to floor, until, in
response to that light-heartedness which had burst forth in such a
ringing laugh, pallid faces were lifted wearily from toil, and around
thin, pinched lips the reflex of a smile came creeping over the furrows
caused by starvation and misery.

"Let go his arm, wench," he cried gaily; "he'll not hurt me, never fear.
Hatred has drawn a film over his eyes and caused his hand to tremble.
Put back your poniard, my lord," he added lightly, "the penniless
adventurer and paid hireling is unworthy of your steel. Keep it whetted
for your own defence and for the protection of the gracious lady who has
plighted her troth to you."

"Name her not, man!" cried Stoutenburg, whose arm had dropped by his
side, but whose voice was still hoarse with the passion of hate which
now consumed him.

"Is her name polluted through passing my lips? Yet is she under my
protection, placed there by those who should have guarded her honour
with their life."

"Touch my future wife but with the tips of thy fingers, plepshurk, and
I'll hang thee on the nearest tree with mine