Little wonder, therefore, that those who lay under such a ban, those who were continually walking in the cold shadow of this dreadful doom, clung to each other, loved each other, and comforted each other to the last, passing often enough hand-in-hand through the fiery gates to that country in which there is no more pain.  To be a member of the New Religion in the Netherlands under the awful rule of Charles the Emperor and Philip the King was to be one of a vast family.  It was not “sir” or “mistress” or “madame,” it was “my father” and “my mother,” or “my sister” and “my brother;” yes, and between people who were of very different status and almost strangers in the flesh; strangers in the flesh but brethren in spirit.

It will be understood that in these circumstances Dirk and Brant, already liking each other, and being already connected by blood, were not slow in coming to a complete understanding and fellowship.

There they sat in the window-place telling each other of their families, their hopes and fears, and even of their lady-loves.  In this, as in every other respect, Hendrik Brant’s story was one of simple prosperity.  He was betrothed to a lady of The Hague, the only daughter of a wealthy wine-merchant, who, according to his account, seemed to be as beautiful as she was good and rich, and they were to be married in the spring.  But when Dirk told him of his affair, he shook his wise young head.

“You say that both she and her aunt are Catholics?” he asked.

“Yes, cousin, this is the trouble.  I think that she is fond of me, or, at any rate, she was until a few days since,” he added ruefully, “but how can I, being a ‘heretic,’ ask her to plight her troth to me unless I tell her?  And that, you know, is against the rule; indeed, I scarcely dare to do so.”

“Had you not best consult with some godly elder who by prayer and words may move your lady’s heart till the light shines on her?” asked Brant.

“Cousin, it has been done, but always there is the other in the way, that red-nosed Aunt Clara, who is a mad idolator; also there is the serving-woman, Greta, whom I take for little better than a spy.  Therefore, between the two of them I see little chance that Lysbeth will ever hear the truth this side of marriage.  And yet how dare I marry her?  Is it right that I should marry her and therefore, perhaps, bring her too to some dreadful fate such as may wait for you or me?  Moreover, now since this man Montalvo has crossed my path, all things seem to have gone wrong between me and Lysbeth; indeed but yesterday her door was shut on me.”

“Women have their fancies,” answered Brant, slowly; “perhaps he has taken hers; she would not be the first who walked that plank.  Or, perhaps, she is vexed with you for not speaking out ere this; for, man, not knowing what you are, how can she read your mind?”

“Perhaps, perhaps,” said Dirk, “but I know not what to do,” and in his perplexity he struck his forehead with his hand.