The Scarlet Pimpernel Series – All 35 Titles in One Edition. Emma Orczy
dragged a chair out to the middle of the room and sat himself astride upon it, his arms resting across the back, his booted and spurred feet thrust out in front of him, whilst his hollow, purple-rimmed eyes with their feverish glow of ever-present inward excitement were fixed upon the girl.
"I must tell thee, wench," he began abruptly, "that I mean to be thy friend. No harm shall come to thee if thou wilt answer truthfully certain questions which I would ask of thee."
Then as she appeared too frightened to reply and only cast a furtive, timorous glance on him, he continued after a slight pause:
"The man who protected thee against the rabble the other night, and who gave thee shelter afterwards, the man in whose bed thy crippled father lies at this moment — he is thy sweetheart, is he not?"
"What is that to you?" she retorted sullenly.
"Nothing in itself," he said quietly. "I merely spoke of it to show thee how much I know. Let me tell thee at once that I was in the tavern with him on New Year's Eve when his boon-companions told the tale of how he had protected thee against a crowd; and that I was in this very street not twenty paces away when in response to thy appeal he gave up his room and his bed to thee, and for thy sake paced the streets for several hours in the middle of the night and in weather that must have frozen the marrow in his bones."
"Well? What of that?" said the girl simply. "He is kind and good, and hath that pity for the poor and homeless which would grace many a noble gentleman."
"No doubt," he retorted dryly, "but a man will not do all that for a wench, save in expectation of adequate payment for his trouble and discomfort."
"What is that to you?" she reiterated, with the same sullen earnestness.
"Thou art in love with that fine gallant, eh, my girl?" he continued with a harsh, flippant laugh, "and art not prepared to own to it. Well! I'll not press thee for a confession. I am quite satisfied with thine evasive answers. Let me but tell thee this; that the man whom thou lovest is in deadly danger of his life."
"Great God, have pity on him!" she exclaimed involuntarily.
"In a spirit of wanton mischief — for he is not so faithful to thee as thou wouldst wish — he has abducted a lady from this city, as thou well knowest, since thou didst lend him thy help in the committal of this crime. Thou seest," he added roughly, "that denials on thy part were worse than useless, since I know everything. The lady's father is an important magistrate in this city, he has moved every process of the law so that he may mete out an exemplary punishment to the blackguard who has dared to filch his daughter. Hanging will be the most merciful ending to thy lover's life, but Mynheer Beresteyn talks of the rack, of quartering and of the stake, and he is a man of boundless influence in the administration of the law."
"Lord, have mercy upon us," once again murmured the wretched girl whose cheeks now looked grey and shrunken; her lips were white and quivering and her eyes with dilated pupils were fixed in horror on the harbinger of this terrible news.
"He will have none on thy sweetheart, I'll warrant thee unless...."
He paused significantly, measuring the effect of his words and of that dramatic pause upon the tense sensibilities of the girl.
"Unless ... what?" came almost as a dying murmur from her parched throat.
"Unless thou wilt lend a hand to save him."
"I?" she exclaimed pathetically, "I would give my hand ... my tongue ... my sight ... my life to save him."
"Come!" he said, "that's brave! but it will not be necessary to make quite so violent a sacrifice. I have great power too in this city and great influence over the bereaved father," he continued, lying unblushingly, "I know that if I can restore his daughter to him within the next four and twenty hours, I could prevail upon him to give up pursuit of the villain who abducted her, and to let him go free."
But these words were not yet fully out of his mouth, before she had fallen on her knees before him, clasping her thin hands together and raising up to his hard face large, dark eyes that were brimful of tears.
"Will you do that then, O my gracious lord," she pleaded. "Oh! God will reward you if you will do this."
"How can I, thou crazy wench," he retorted, "how can I restore the damsel to her sorrowing father when I do not know where she is?"
"But —— "
"It is from thee I want to hear where the lady is."
"From me?"
"Why yes! of course! Thou art in the confidence of thy lover, and knowest where he keeps the lady hidden. Tell me where she is, and I will pledge thee my word that thou and he will have nothing more to fear."
"He is not my lover," she murmured dully, "nor am I in his confidence."
She was still on her knees, but had fallen back on her heels, with arms hanging limp and helpless by her side. Hope so suddenly arisen had equally quickly died out of her heart, and her pinched face expressed in every line the despair and misery which had come in its wake.
"Come!" he cried harshly, "play no tricks with me, wench. Thou didst own to being the rascal's sweetheart."
"I owned to my love for him," she said simply, "not to his love for me."
"I told thee that he will hang or burn unless thou art willing to help him."
"And I told thee, gracious sir, that I would give my life for him."
"Which is quite unnecessary. All I want is the knowledge of where he keeps the lady whom he has outraged."
"I cannot help you, mynheer, in that."
"Thou wilt not!" he cried.
"I cannot," she reiterated gently. "I do not know where she is."
"Will fifty guilders help thy memory?" he sneered.
"Fifty guilders would mean ease and comfort to my father and to me for many months to come. I would do much for fifty guilders but I cannot tell that which I do not know."
"An hundred guilders, girl, and the safety of thy lover. Will that not tempt thee?"
"Indeed, indeed, gracious sir," she moaned piteously, "I swear to you that I do not know."
"Then dost perjure thyself and wilt rue it, wench," he exclaimed as he jumped to his feet, and with a loud curse kicked the chair away from him.
The Lord of Stoutenburg was not a man who had been taught to curb his temper; he had always given way to his passions, allowing them as the years went on to master every tender feeling within him; for years now he had sacrificed everything to them, to his ambition, to his revenge, to his loves and hates. Now that this fool of a girl tried to thwart him as he thought, he allowed his fury against her full rein, to the exclusion of reason, of prudence, or ordinary instincts of chivalry. He stooped over her like a great, gaunt bird of prey and his thin claw-like hand fastened itself on her thin shoulder.
"Thou liest, girl," he said hoarsely, "or art playing with me? Money thou shalt have. Name thy price. I'll pay thee all that thou wouldst ask. I'll not believe that thou dost not know! Think of thy lover under torture, on the rack, burnt at the stake. Hast ever seen a man after he has been broken on the wheel? his limbs torn from their sockets, his chest sunken under the weights — and the stake? hast seen a heretic burnt alive...?"
She gave a loud scream of agony: her hands went up to her ears, her eyes stared out of her head like those of one in a frenzy of terror.
"Pity! pity! my lord, have pity! I swear that I do not know."
"Verdomme!" he cried out in the madness of his rage as with a cruel twist of his hand he threw the wretched girl off her balance and sent her half-fainting, cowering on the floor.
"Verdommt be thou, plepshurk," came in a ringing voice from behind him.
The next moment he felt as if two grapnels made of steel had fastened themselves on his shoulders and as if a weight of irresistible