After this experience, which the reader must remember was nothing extraordinary in those dark and dreadful days when neither the lives of men nor the safety of women—­especially Protestant men and women—­were things of much account, the three of them reached home without further incident, and quite unobserved.  Arriving at the house, they entered it near the Watergate by a back door that led into the stableyard.  It was opened by a woman whom they followed into a little room where a light burned.  Here she turned and kissed two of them, Dirk first and then Foy.

“Thank God that I see you safe,” she said.  “Whenever you go to the Meeting-place I tremble until I hear your footsteps at the door.”

“What’s the use of that, mother?” said Foy.  “Your fretting yourself won’t make things better or worse.”

“Ah! dear, how can I help it?” she replied softly; “we cannot all be young and cheerful, you know.”

“True, wife, true,” broke in Dirk, “though I wish we could; we should be lighter-hearted so,” and he looked at her and sighed.

Lysbeth van Goorl could no longer boast the beauty which was hers when first we met her, but she was still a sweet and graceful woman, her figure remaining almost as slim as it had been in girlhood.  The grey eyes also retained their depth and fire, only the face was worn, though more by care and the burden of memories than with years.  The lot of the loving wife and mother was hard indeed when Philip the King ruled in Spain and Alva was his prophet in the Netherlands.

“Is it done?” she asked.

“Yes, wife, our brethren are now saints in Paradise, therefore rejoice.”

“It is very wrong,” she answered with a sob, “but I cannot.  Oh!” she added with a sudden blaze of indignation, “if He is just and good, why does God suffer His servants to be killed thus?”

“Perhaps our grandchildren will be able to answer that question,” replied Dirk.

“That poor Vrouw Jansen,” broke in Lysbeth, “just married, and so young and pretty.  I wonder what will become of her.”

Dirk and Foy looked at each other, and Martin, who was hovering about near the door, slunk back guiltily into the passage as though he had attempted to injure the Vrouw Jansen.

“To-morrow we will look to it, wife.  And now let us eat, for we are faint with hunger.”

Ten minutes later they were seated at their meal.  The reader may remember the room; it was that wherein Montalvo, ex-count and captain, made the speech which charmed all hearers on the night when he had lost the race at the ice-carnival.  The same chandelier hung above them, some portion of the same plate, even, repurchased by Dirk, was on the table, but how different were the company and the feast!  Aunt Clara, the fatuous, was long dead, and with her many of the companions of that occasion, some naturally, some by the hand of the executioner, while others had fled the land.