To dismiss religious considerations, however, Dirk could have wished that this kindly natured Spaniard was not quite so good-looking or quite so appreciative of the excellent points of the young Leyden ladies, and especially of Lysbeth’s, with whose sterling character, he now remembered, Montalvo had assured him he was much impressed.  What he feared was that this regard might be reciprocal.  After all a Spanish hidalgo in command of the garrison was a distinguished person, and, alas!  Lysbeth also was a Catholic.  Dirk loved Lysbeth; he loved her with that patient sincerity which was characteristic of his race and his own temperament, but in addition to and above the reasons that have been given already it was this fact of the difference of religion which hitherto had built a wall between them.  Of course she was unaware of anything of the sort.  She did not know even that he belonged to the New Faith, and without the permission of the elders of his sect, he would not dare to tell her, for the lives of men and of their families could not be confided lightly to the hazard of a girl’s discretion.

Herein lay the real reason why, although Dirk was so devoted to Lysbeth, and although he imagined that she was not indifferent to him, as yet no word had passed between them of love or marriage.  How could he who was a Lutheran ask a Catholic to become his wife without telling her the truth?  And if he told her the truth, and she consented to take the risk, how could he drag her into that dreadful net?  Supposing even that she kept to her own faith, which of course she would be at liberty to do, although equally, of course, he was bound to try to convert her, their children, if they had any, must be brought up in his beliefs.  Then, sooner or later, might come the informer, that dreadful informer whose shadow already lay heavy upon thousands of homes in the Netherlands, and after the informer the officer, and after the officer the priest, and after the priest the judge, and after the judge—­the executioner and the stake.

In this case, what would happen to Lysbeth?  She might prove herself innocent of the horrible crime of heresy, if by that time she was innocent, but what would life become to the loving young woman whose husband and children, perhaps, had been haled off to the slaughter chambers of the Papal Inquisition?  This was the true first cause why Dirk had remained silent, even when he was sorely tempted to speak; yes, although his instinct told him that his silence had been misinterpreted and set down to over-caution, or indifference, or to unnecessary scruples.

The next to wake up that morning was Lysbeth, who, if she was not troubled with headache resulting from indulgence—­and in that day women of her class sometimes suffered from it—­had pains of her own to overcome.  When sifted and classified these pains resolved themselves into a sense of fiery indignation against Dirk van Goorl.  Dirk had been late for his appointment, alleging some ridiculous