Chapter 12

      Ysabeau

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      Dirk and the lady entered the room he had just quitted; he set a chair for her near the window and waited for her to speak, but kept his eyes the while on her shrouded figure.

      She wore a mask such as he had often seen on ladies; fantastic Italian taste had fashioned them in the likeness of a plague-stricken countenance, flecked green and yellow, and more lively fancy had nicknamed them “melons” from their similarity to an unripe melon skin; these masks, oval-shaped, with a slit for the mouth and eyes, and extending from the brow to the chin, were an effective concealment of every feature, and high favourites among ladies.

      For the rest, the stranger’s hood was pulled well forward so that not a lock of hair was visible, and her mantle was gathered close at her throat; it was of fine green cloth edged with miniver; she wore thick gauntlets so that not an inch of her skin was visible.

      “You are well disguised,” said Dirk at last, as she made no sign of speaking. “What is your business with me?”

      He began to think that she could not be Jacobea since she gave no indication of revealing herself; also, he fancied that she was too short.

      “Is there any one to overhear us or interrupt?” the lady spoke at last, her voice muffled a little by the mask.

      “None,” answered Dirk half impatiently. “I beg that you tell me who you are.”

      “Certes, that can wait;” her eyes sparkled through their holes in contrast with the ghastly painted wood that made her face immovable. “But I will tell you who you are, sir.” “You know?” said Dirk coldly.

      It seemed as if she smiled.

      “The student named Dirk Renswoude who was driven forth from Basle University for practising the black arts.”

      For the first time in his life Dirk was taken aback, and hopelessly disconcerted; he had not believed it possible for any to discover the past life of the learned doctor Constantine; he went red and white, and could say nothing in either defence or denial.

      “It was only about three months ago,” continued the lady. “And both students and many other in the town of Basle would still know you, certes.”

      A rush of anger against his unknown accuser nerved Dirk.

      “By what means have you discovered this?” he demanded. “Basle is far enough from Frankfort, I wot . . . and how many know . . . and what is the price of your silence, dame?”

      The lady lifted her head.

      “I like you,” she said quietly. “You take it well. No one knows save I. I have made cautious inquiries about you, and pieced together your story with my own wit.”

      “My story!” flashed Dirk. “Certes! Ye know nought of me beyond Basle.”

      “No,” she assented. “But it is enough. Joris of Thuringia died.”

      “Ah!” ejaculated Dirk.

      The lady sat very still, observing him.

      “So I hold your life, sir,” she said.

      Dirk, goaded, turned on her impetuously.

      “Ye are Jacobea of Martzburg —”

      “No”— she started at the name. “But I know her —”

      “She told you this tale —”

      Again the lady answered —

      “No.”

      “She is from Basle,” cried Dirk.

      “Believe me,” replied the stranger earnestly, “she knows nothing of you — I alone in Frankfort hold your secret, and I can help you to keep it . . . it were easy to spread a report of Dirk Renswoude’s death.”

      Dirk bit his finger, his lip, glared out at the profusion of roses, at the darkening sky, then at the quiet figure in the hideous speckled mask; if she chose to speak he would have, at the best of it, to fly Frankfort, and that did not suit his schemes.

      “Another youth lives here,” said the lady. “I think he also fled from Basle.”

      Dirk’s face grew pale and cunning; he was quick to see that she did not know Theirry was compromised.

      “He was here — now he has gone to Court — he was at Basle, but innocent, he came with me out of friendship. He is silly and fond.”

      “I have to do with you,” answered the lady. “Ye have a great, a terrible skill, evil spirits league with you . . . your spells killed a man —” She stopped.

      “Poor fool,” said Dirk sombrely.

      The stranger rose; her calm and self-possession had suddenly given way to fierce only half-repressed passion; she clasped her hands and trembled as she stood.

      “Well,” she cried thickly. “You could do that again — a softer, more subtle way?” “For you?” he whispered.

      “For me,” she answered, and sank into the window-seat, pulling at her gloves mechanically.

      A silence, while the dying red sunlight fell over the Eastern cushions and over her dark mantle and outside the red roses shook and whispered in the witch’s garden.

      “I cannot help you if you tell me nothing,” said Dirk at length in a grim manner.

      “I will tell you this,” answered she passionately. “There is a man I hate, a man in my way — I do not talk wildly; that man must go, and if you will be the means —”

      “You will be in my power as I am now in yours,” thought Dirk, completing the broken sentence.

      The lady looked out at the roses.

      “I cannot convey to you what nights of horror and days of bitterness, what resolutions formed and resolutions broken — what hate, and what — love have gone to form the impulse that brought me here today — nor does it concern ye; certes enough I am resolved, and if your spells can aid me —” She turned her head sharply. “I will pay you very well.”

      “You have told me nothing,” repeated Dirk. “And though I can discover what you are and who is your enemy, it were better that you told me with your own lips.”

      She seemed, now, in an ill-concealed agitation.

      “Not