“Dirk, Cousin Dirk, I think you know—­this is—­the Honourable Captain the Count Juan de Montalvo.”

“Ah! it is the Senor van Goorl,” said Montalvo, pulling off the skate and rising from his knee, which, from his excess of courtesy, was now wet through.  “Senor, allow me to return to you, safe and sound, the fair lady of whom I have robbed you for a while.”

“For a while, captain,” blurted Dirk; “why, from first to last, she has been gone nearly four hours, and a fine state we have been in about her.”

“That will all be explained presently, Senor—­at supper, to which the Jufvrouw has been so courteous as to ask me,” then, aside and below his breath, again the ominous word of reminder—­“pays.”  “Most happily, your cousin’s presence was the means of saving a fellow-creature’s life.  But, as I have said, the tale is long.  Senor—­permit,” and in another second Lysbeth found herself walking down her own hall upon the arm of the Spaniard, while Dirk, her aunt, and some guests followed obediently behind.

Now Montalvo knew that his difficulties were over for that evening at any rate, since he had crossed the threshold and was a guest.

Half unconsciously Lysbeth guided him to the balconied sit-kamer on the first floor, which in our day would answer to the drawing-room.  Here several other of her friends were gathered, for it had been arranged that the ice-festival should end with a supper as rich as the house could give.  To these, too, she must introduce her cavalier, who bowed courteously to each in turn.  Then she escaped, but, as she passed him, distinctly, she could swear, did she see his lips shape themselves to the hateful word—­“pays.”

When she reached her chamber, so great was Lysbeth’s wrath and indignation that almost she choked with it, till again reason came to her aid, and with reason a desire to carry the thing off as well as might be.  So she told her maid Greta to robe her in her best garment, and to hang about her neck the famous collar of pearls which her father had brought from the East, that was the talk and envy of half the women in Leyden.  On her head, too, she placed the cap of lovely lace which had been a wedding gift to her mother by her grandmother, the old dame who wove it.  Then she added such golden ornaments as it was customary for women of her class of wear, and descended to the gathering room.

Meanwhile Montalvo had not been idle.  Taking Dirk aside, and pleading his travel-worn condition, he had prayed him to lead him to some room where he might order his dress and person.  Dirk complied, though with an ill grace, but so pleasant did Montalvo make himself during those few minutes, that before he ushered him back to the company in some way Dirk found himself convinced that this particular Spaniard was not, as the saying went, “as black as his mustachios.”  He felt almost sure too, although he had not yet found time to tell him the details of it, that there was some excellent reason to account for his having carried off the adorable Lysbeth during an entire afternoon and evening.