"It--it can not be," she added quietly. "The man was Philip
Poynter."
Ronador caught her hands again with fierce resolve. His eyes were
blazing with excitement and anger at the utter faith in her voice.
"Why do you think I adopted the stained face--the disguise of a
wandering minstrel?" he demanded impetuously. "It was to free myself
from his infernal spying--to afford myself the opportunity of gaining
your friendship without his knowledge! Why did he follow--always
follow? Because at the command of his chief, he must needs obstruct my
plan of winning you. There was always Princess Phaedra! Why did he
watch by night in the forest. To spy! Can you not see it?"
"Surely, surely," said Diane, "you must be wrong!"
But Ronador could not be wrong. Themar, his servant, whom he had
dispatched to seek employment with the Baron when the fortunes of the
road had made further attendance upon himself inconvenient, had learned
of the hay-camp and of Poynter's pledge to make his victim's advances
ridiculous in the eyes of Diane.
"And when Themar followed--to warn me--Poynter beat him brutally," he
went on fiercely, "beat him and sent him in a dirty barge to a distant
city. All the while when I fancied my disguise impenetrable, he was
laughing in his sleeve, for he is as clever as he is unscrupulous.
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