“Give me my cloak and veil,” she said to the woman, “and now go tell the man that I am coming.”

At the door she found the soldier, who saluted her, and said respectfully, “Follow me, lady, but at a little distance.”

So they started, and through side streets Lysbeth was led to a back entrance of the Gevangenhuis, which opened and closed behind her mysteriously, leaving her wondering whether she would ever pass that gate again.  Within a man was waiting—­she did not even notice what kind of man—­who also said, “Follow me, lady,” and led her through gloomy passages and various doors into a little empty chamber furnished with a table and two chairs.  Presently the door opened and shut; then her whole being shrank and sickened as though beneath the breath of poison, for there before her, still the same, still handsome, although so marred by time and scars and evil, stood the man who had been her husband, Juan de Montalvo.  But whatever she felt Lysbeth showed nothing of it in her face, which remained white and stern; moreover, even before she looked at him she was aware that he feared her more than she feared him.

It was true, for from this woman’s eyes went out a sword of terror that seemed to pierce Montalvo’s heart.  Back flew his mind to the scene of their betrothal, and the awful words that she had spoken then re-echoed in his ears.  How strangely things had come round, for on that day, as on this, the stake at issue was the life of Dirk van Goorl.  In the old times she had bought it, paying as its price herself, her fortune, and, worst of all, to a woman, her lover’s scorn and wonder.  What would she be prepared to pay now?  Well, fortunately, he need ask but little of her.  And yet his soul mistrusted him of these bargainings with Lysbeth van Hout for the life of Dirk van Goorl.  The first had ended ill with a sentence of fourteen years in the galleys, most of which he had served.  How would the second end?

By way of answer there seemed to rise before the eye of Montalvo’s mind a measureless black gulf, and, falling, falling, falling through its infinite depths one miserable figure, a mere tiny point that served to show the vastness it explored.  The point turned over, and he saw its face as in a crystal—­it was his own.

This unpleasant nightmare of the imagination came in an instant, and in an instant passed.  The next Montalvo, courteous and composed, was bowing before his visitor and praying her to be seated.

“It is most good of you, Vrouw van Goorl,” he began, “to have responded so promptly to my invitation.”

“Perhaps, Count de Montalvo,” she replied, “you will do me the favour to set out your business in as few words as possible.”

“Most certainly; that is my desire.  Let me free your mind of apprehension.  The past has mingled memories for both of us, some of them bitter, some, let me hope, sweet,” and he laid his hand upon his heart and sighed.  “But it is a dead past, so, dear lady, let us agree to bury it in a fitting silence.”