“I must be going home,” faltered Lysbeth.

“No,” answered Martha, “it is too late, you have slept long.  Look, the sun is westering fast, this night you must stop with me.  Oh! do not be afraid, my fare is rough, but it is sweet and fresh and plenty; fish from the mere as much as you will, for who can catch them better than I?  And water-fowl that I snare, yes, and their eggs; moreover, dried flesh and bacon which I get from the mainland, for there I have friends whom sometimes I meet at night.”

So Lysbeth yielded, for the great peace of this lake pleased her.  Oh! after all that she had gone through it was like heaven to watch the sun sinking towards the quiet water, to hear the wild-fowl call, to see the fish leap and the halcyons flash by, and above all to be sure that by nothing short of a miracle could this divine silence, broken only by Nature’s voices, be defiled with the sound of the hated accents of the man who had ruined and betrayed her.  Yes, she was weary, and a strange unaccustomed langour crept over her; she would rest there this night also.

So they went back to the hut, and made ready their evening meal, and as she fried the fish over the fire of peats, verily Lysbeth found herself laughing like a girl again.  Then they ate it with appetite, and after it was done, Mother Martha prayed aloud; yes, and without fear, although she knew Lysbeth to be a Catholic, read from her one treasure, a Testament, crouching there in the light of the fire and saying: 

“See, lady, what a place this is for a heretic to hide in.  Where else may a woman read from the Bible and fear no spy or priest?” Remembering a certain story, Lysbeth shivered at her words.

“Now,” said the Mare, when she had finished reading, “tell me before you sleep, what it was that brought you into the waters of the Haarlemer Meer, and what that Spanish man has done to you.  Do not be afraid, for though I am mad, or so they say, I can keep counsel, and between you and me are many bonds, Carolus van Hout’s daughter, some of which you know and see, and some that you can neither know nor see, but which God will weave in His own season.”

Lysbeth looked at the weird countenance, distorted and made unhuman by long torment of body and mind, and found in it something to trust; yes, even signs of that sympathy which she so sorely needed.  So she told her all the tale from the first word of it to the last.

The Mare listened in silence, for no story of evil perpetrated by a Spaniard seemed to move or astonish her, only when Lysbeth had done, she said: 

“Ah! child, had you but known of me, and where to find me, you should have asked my aid.”

“Why, mother, what could you have done?” answered Lysbeth.

“Done?  I would have followed him by night until I found my chance in some lonely place, and there I would have——­” Then she stretched out her bony hand to the red light of the fire, and Lysbeth saw that in it was a knife.