“Have you anything to say?” asked Lysbeth.

There was still one chance for the wretched man—­had he been more dishonest than he was.  He might have denied all knowledge of the signature.  But to do this never occurred to him.  Instead, he plunged into a wandering, scarcely intelligible, explanation, for even in his dreadful plight his vanity would not permit him to tell all the truth before Elsa.  Moreover, in that fearful silence, soon he became utterly bewildered, till at length he hardly knew what he was saying, and in the end came to a full stop.

“I understand you to admit that you signed this paper in the house of Hague Simon, and in the presence of a man called Ramiro, who is Governor of the prison, and who showed it to me,” said Lysbeth, lifting her head which had sunk upon her breast.

“Yes, mother, I signed something, but——­”

“I wish to hear no more,” interrupted Lysbeth.  “Whether your motive was jealousy, or greed, or wickedness of heart, or fear, you signed that which, had you been a man, you would not have yourself to be torn to pieces with redhot pincers you put a pen to it.  Moreover, you gave your evidence fully and freely, for I have read it, and supported it with the severed finger of the woman Meg which you stole from Foy’s room.  You are the murderer of your benefactor and of your mother’s heart, and the would-be murderer of your brother and of Martin Roos.  When you were born, the mad wife, Martha, who nursed me, counselled that you should be put to death, lest you should live to bring evil upon me and mine.  I refused, and you have brought the evil upon us all, but most, I think, upon your own soul.  I do not curse you, I call down no ill upon you; Adrian, I give you over into the hands of God to deal with as He sees fit.  Here is money”—­and, going to her desk, she took from it a heavy purse of gold which had been prepared for their flight, and thrust it into the pocket of his doublet, wiping her fingers upon her kerchief after she had touched him.  “Go hence and never let me see your face again.  You were born of my body, you are my flesh and blood, but for this world and the next I renounce you, Adrian.  Bastard, I know you not.  Murderer, get you gone.”

Adrian fell upon the ground; he grovelled before his mother trying to kiss the hem of her dress, while Elsa sobbed aloud hysterically.  But Lysbeth spurned him in the face with her foot, saying,

“Get you gone before I call up such servants as are left to me to thrust you to the street.”

Then Adrian rose and with great gasps of agony, like some sore-wounded thing, crept from that awful and majestic presence of outraged motherhood, crept down the stairs and away into the city.

When he had gone Lysbeth took pen and paper and wrote in large letters these words:—­

“Notice to all the good citizens of Leyden.  Adrian, called van Goorl, upon whose written evidence his stepfather, Dirk van Goorl, his half-brother, Foy van Goorl, and the serving-man, Martin Roos, have been condemned to death in the Gevangenhuis by torment, starvation, water, fire, and sword, is known here no longer.  Lysbeth van Goorl.”