In few words and brief he told it, or so much as she need know to understand.  His last words were:  “Mother, be merciful to Adrian; from the first he meant no ill; he saved all our lives, and he lies dying by that man’s dagger.”

“Lift him up,” she said.

So they lifted him up, and Adrian, who, since the knife pierced him had uttered no word, spoke for the first and last time, muttering hoarsely: 

“Mother, take back your words and forgive me—­before I die.”

Now the sorrow-frozen heart of Lysbeth melted, and she bent over him and said, speaking so that all might hear: 

“Welcome to your home again, Adrian.  You who once were led astray, have done bravely, and I am proud to call you son.  Though you have left the faith in which you were bred, here and hereafter may God bless you and reward you, beloved Adrian!” Then she bent down and kissed his dying lips.  Foy and Elsa kissed him also in farewell before they bore him, smiling happily to himself, to the chamber, his own chamber, where within some few hours death found him.

Adrian had been borne away, and for a little while there was silence.  Then, none commanding him, but as though an instinct pushed him forward, Red Martin began to move up the length of the long room, half dragging, half carrying his captive Ramiro.  It was as if some automaton had suddenly been put in motion, some machine of gigantic strength that nothing could stop.  The man in his grip set his heels in the floor and hung back, but Martin scarcely seemed to heed his resistance.  On he came, and the victim with him, till they stood together before the oaken chair and the stern-faced, white-haired woman who sat in it, her cold countenance lit by the light of the two candles.  She looked and shuddered.  Then she spoke, asking: 

“Why do you bring this man to me, Martin?”

“For judgment, Lysbeth van Goorl,” he answered.

“Who made me a judge over him?” she asked.

“My master, Dirk van Goorl, your son, Adrian, and Hendrik Brant.  Their blood makes you judge of his blood.”

“I will have none of it,” Lysbeth said passionately, “let the people judge him.”  As she spoke, from the crowd in the street below there swelled a sudden clamour.

“Good,” said Martin, “the people shall judge,” and he began to turn towards the window, when suddenly, by a desperate effort, Ramiro wrenched his doublet from his hand, and flung himself at Lysbeth’s feet and grovelled there.

“What do you seek?” she asked, drawing back her dress so that he should not touch it.

“Mercy,” he gasped.

“Mercy!  Look, son and daughter, this man asks for mercy who for many a year has given none.  Well, Juan de Montalvo, take your prayer to God and to the people.  I have done with you.”

“Mercy, mercy!” he cried again.

“Eight months ago,” she said, “I uttered that prayer to you, begging of you in the Name of Christ to spare the life of an innocent man, and what was your answer, Juan de Montalvo?”