The First Sir Percy by Baroness Orczy (which ebook reader TXT) 📕

over before. It seemed almost as if the other man⁠—Stoutenburg’s friend⁠—was horrified at the project. He tried to argue once or twice, and once I heard him say quite distinctly: ‘Not that, Stoutenburg! Let us fight him like men; even kill him, like men kill one another. But not like that.’ But my Lord Stoutenburg only laughed.”

Diogenes was silent. He was deep in thought.

“You had no other indication?” he asked reflectively.

“No,” Pythagoras replied. “All I saw was that my lord kept the finger and thumb of his right hand in a hidden pocket of his doublet, and once he said: ‘The Prince of Poets taught me to manufacture them; and I supply them to him you know of, wherever he can find an opportunity to come out here to me. He uses them at his discretion. But we can judge by results!’ And then he laughed because his friend appeared to shudder. I was puzzled,” the sick man went on wearily, “because of it all; and I marvelled who the Prince of Poets might be, for I am no scholar and I thought that perhaps⁠—”

“You are quite sure Stoutenburg said ‘Prince of Poets’?” Diogenes insisted, frowning. “Your ears must have been buzzing by then.”

“I am quite sure,” Pythagoras asserted. “But I could not see what he had in his hand.”

Diogenes said nothing more, and silence fell upon the stately chamber, the sombre panelling and heavy tapestries of which effectually deadened every sound that came from the outside. Only the monumental clock up against the wall ticked in a loud monotone. The sick man, wearied with so much talking, fell back against the pillows. The shades of evening were quickly gathering in now; the corners of the room were indistinguishable in the gloom. Only the bedclothes still gleamed white in the uncertain light. From the distant tower of St. Maria Kerk a bell chimed the hour of seven. A few minutes went by. Anon there came a scratching at the door.

In response to Diogenes’ loud “Enter!” the physician came in, preceded by a serving-man carrying two lighted candles in massive silver sconces.

“His Highness cannot wait any longer,” the physician said, as soon as he had perceived Diogenes, still sitting pensive on the edge of the bed. “And as I have no anxiety about the patient now, I will, by your leave, place him in your hands.”

Diogenes appeared to wake as if out of a dream. He rose and looked about him somewhat vaguely. The physician thought he must have been asleep.

“Will you pay your respects to his Highness?” the latter said. “I think he desires to see you.”

Just for a moment Diogenes remained quite still. The physician had approached the sick man, and was surveying him with critical but obviously reassured attention. Socrates was again snoring somewhere in a far corner of the room, and the serving-man, having placed the candles on the table, stood waiting at the door.

“Yes. I’ll to his Highness,” Diogenes said abruptly; and, beckoning to the serving-man to precede him, he strode out of the room.

Outside on the landing he paused. Then, with a characteristic, impulsive gesture, he suddenly beat his forehead with the palm of his hand.

“The Prince of Poets, of course!” he murmured under his breath. “Francis Borgia, the true descendant of his infamous ancestors! Poison! And a slow one at that! Oh, the miserable assassins! Please God, this knowledge hath not come too late!” he added with earnest fervor.

V

A quarter of an hour later the Stadtholder was in possession of all the facts as they had been revealed to Diogenes by his comrade in arms.

“I seem fated,” he said to Diogenes kindly, yet not without a measure of bitterness, “to owe my safety to you and your brother philosophers.”

He was discussing De Berg’s surprise plans on Arnheim and Nijmegen. Of that abominable crime, hatched with the chance aid of a poison-mongering Borgia, Diogenes had not as yet spoken one word. Accustomed to swift decisions and prompt action, he had already made up his mind that he would speak of it first to the English physician, whose business it would be to see to it that the insidious poison no longer reached the prince’s lips, at the same time enjoining the strictest secrecy in the matter; for it would only be by rigid circumspection and ceaseless watching that the assassin’s accomplice could be brought to justice.

Mynheer Beresteyn and some of his older friends were in the room with his Highness. They all put their grave heads together, for there was no doubt that the Archduchess’s advisers had planned an invasion of the United Provinces on a grand scale.

“Arnheim is insufficiently defended, of that there’s no doubt,” the Stadtholder said. “It was my intention to reinforce all the frontier cities, and to keep their garrisons up to the requisite numbers. If I only had the strength⁠—”

He paused. The feeling of physical weakness consequent on disease caused him endless and acute bitterness.

“It is not too late to send troops to Arnheim and to Nijmegen,” Diogenes broke in, in his usual abrupt manner. “Three thousand in one city, four thousand in the other would be sufficient, if your Highness can act quickly.”

“I cannot detach seven or eight thousand troops from my forces at the present moment,” the prince rejoined. “If Spinola were to attack from the south I am only just strong enough to defend myself as it is.”

“Marquet is in Overijssel, I believe,” urged the soldier. “He hath three or four thousand troops. Let him push on to Arnheim to reinforce the garrison.”

“And De Keysere is at Wageningen,” the prince broke in, fired, despite himself, by the other’s enthusiasm. “He hath three thousand mercenaries from Switzerland and Germany.”

“Excellent fighters and well-seasoned,” Diogenes asserted. “And trained under Maurice of Nassau, the first captain of this or any epoch!”

“Ay!” sighed Maurice wearily. “But time is against us. Marquet is at Vorden⁠—”

“But Arnheim and Nijmegen can hold out for awhile,” Diogenes argued forcefully.

“And would hold out to