But she managed to escape the stake, and since then has lived as a vagrant, hiding in the islands of the Haarlemer Meer, and, it is suspected, working murder and robbery on any of Spanish blood whom she can catch.  Now she has been caught herself and identified, and, of course, the sentence being in full force against her, can be dealt with at once on your Excellency’s command.  Indeed, it would not have been necessary that you should be troubled about the thing at all had it not been that this worthy woman,” and again he pointed to Black Meg, “who was the one who waylaid her, pulled her down and held her till we came, requires your certificate in order that she may claim the reward from the Treasurer of the Holy Inquisition.  Therefore, you will be asked to certify that this is, indeed, the notorious heretic commonly known as Martha the Mare, but whose other name I forget, after which, if you will please to withdraw, we will see to the rest.”

“You mean that she will be taken to the prison to be dealt with by the Holy Office?” queried Montalvo.

“Not exactly, Excellency,” answered the sergeant with a discreet smile and a cough.  “The prison, I am told, is quite full, but she may start for the prison and—­there seems to be a hole in the ice into which, since Satan leads the footsteps of such people astray, this heretic might chance to fall—­or throw herself.”

“What is the evidence?” asked Montalvo.

Then Black Meg stood forward, and, with the rapidity and unction of a spy, poured out her tale.  She identified the woman with one whom she had known who was sentenced to death by the Inquisition and escaped, and, after giving other evidence, ended by repeating the conversation which she had overheard between the accused and Lysbeth that afternoon.

“You accompanied me in a fortunate hour, Senora van Hout,” said the captain gaily, “for now, to satisfy myself, as I wish to be just, and do not trust these paid hags,” and he nodded towards Black Meg, “I must ask you upon your oath before God whether or no you confirm that woman’s tale, and whether or no this very ugly person named the Mare called down curses upon my people and the Holy Office?  Answer, and quickly, if you please, Senora, for it grows cold here and my horse is beginning to shiver.”

Then, for the first time, the Mare raised her head, dragging at her hair, which had become frozen to the ice, until she tore it free.

“Lysbeth van Hout,” she cried in shrill, piercing tones, “would you, to please your Spanish lover, bring your father’s playmate to her death?  The Spanish horse is cold and cannot stay, but the poor Netherland Mare—­ah! she may be thrust beneath the blue ice and bide there till her bones rot at the bottom of the moat.  You have sought the Spaniards, you, whose blood should have warned you against them, and I tell you that it shall cost you dear; but if you say this word they seek, then it shall cost you everything, not only the body, but the spirit also.  Woe to you, Lysbeth van Hout, if you cut me off before my work is done.  I fear not death, nay I welcome it, but I tell you I have work to do before I die.”