I + 

Nicolaes Beresteyn, riding like one possessed had reached Stoutenburg’s encampment one hour before nightfall. He brought the news of the failure of his plan for the capture of the Stadtholder, spoke with many a muttered oath of the Englishman and his two familiars, and of how they had interposed just in the nick of time to stop the runaway horse. + 

“But for that cursed rogue!” he exclaimed savagely, “Maurice of Nassau would now be a prisoner in our hands. We would be holding him to ransom, earning gratitude, honours, wealth at the hands of the Archduchess. Whereas⁠—now⁠—” + 

But there was solace to the bitterness of this disappointment. The blinding powder, invented by the infamous Borgia, had done its work. The abominable rogue, the nameless adventurer, who had twice succeeded in thwarting the best-laid schemes of his lordship of Stoutenburg, had paid the full penalty for his audacity and his arrogant interference. + 

Blind, helpless, broken, an object now of contemptuous pity rather than of hate, he was henceforth powerless to wreak further mischief. + 

“Just before I put my horse to a swift gallop,” Nicolaes Beresteyn had concluded, “I saw him sway in the saddle and roll down into the mud. One of the vagabonds tried to chase me; but my horse bore me well and I was soon out of his reach.” + 

That news did, indeed compensate Stoutenburg for all the humiliation which he had endured at the hands of his successful rival in the past. A rival no longer; for the Laughing Cavalier, blind and helpless, was not like ever to return to claim his young wealthy wife and to burden her with his misery. This last tribute to the man’s pluck and virility Stoutenburg paid him unconsciously. He could not visualize that splendid creature, so full of life and gaiety, and conscious of might strength, groping his way back to the side of the woman whom he had dazzled by his power. + 

“He would sooner die in a ditch,” he muttered to himself, under his breath, “than excite her pity!” + 

“Then the field is clear for me!” he added exultantly; and fell to discussing with Nicolaes his chances of regaining Gilda’s affections. “Do you think she ever cared for the rogue?” he queried, with a strange quiver of emotion in his harsh voice. + 

Nicolaes was doubtful. He himself had never been in love. He liked his young wife well enough; she was comely and rich. But love? No, he could not say. + 

“She’ll not know what has become of him,” Stoutenburg said, striving to allay his own doubts. “And women very quickly forget.” + 

He sighed, proud of his own manly passion that had survived so many vicissitudes, and was linked to such a tenacious memory. + 

“We must not let her know,” Nicolaes insisted. + 

Stoutenburg gave a short, sardonic laugh. “Are you afraid she might kill you if she did?” he queried. + 

Then, as the other made no reply, but stood there brooding, his soul a prey to a sudden horror, which was not unlike a vague pang of remorse, Stoutenburg concluded cynically: + 

“I’ll give the order that every blind beggar found wandering around the city be forthwith hanged on the nearest tree. Will that allay your fears?” + 

Thereafter he paid no further heed to Nicolaes, whom, in his heart, he despised for a waverer and a weakling; but he gave orders to his master of the camp to make an immediate start for Amersfoort. + 