THE BETROTHAL OF LYSBETH
On the following morning when Montalvo entered his private room after
breakfast, he found a lady awaiting him, in whom, notwithstanding the
long cloak and veil she wore, he had little difficulty in recognising
Black Meg. In fact Black Meg had been waiting some while, and being a
person of industrious habits she had not neglected to use her time to
the best advantage.
The reader may remember that when Meg visited the gallant Captain
Montalvo upon a previous occasion, she had taken the liberty of helping
herself to certain papers which she found lying just inside an unlocked
desk. These papers on examination, as she feared might be the case, for
the most part proved to be quite unimportant—unpaid accounts, military
reports, a billet or two from ladies, and so forth. But in thinking the
matter over Black Meg remembered that this desk had another part to it,
which seemed to be locked, and, therefore, just in case they should
prove useful, she took with her a few skeleton keys and one or two
little instruments of steel and attended the pleasure of her noble
patron at an hour when she believed that he would be at breakfast in
another room. Things went well; he was at breakfast and she was left
alone in the chamber with the desk. The rest may be guessed. Replacing
the worthless bundle in the unlocked part, by the aid of her keys and
instruments she opened the inner half. There sure enough were letters
hidden, and in a little drawer two miniatures framed in gold, one of a
lady, young and pretty with dark eyes, and the other of two children, a
boy and a girl of five or six years of age. Also there was a curling
lock of hair labelled in Montalvo’s writing—“Juanita’s hair, which she
gave me as a keepsake.”
Here was treasure indeed whereof Black Meg did not fail to possess
herself. Thrusting the letters and other articles into the bosom of her
dress to be examined at leisure, she was clever enough, before closing
and re-locking the desk, to replace them with a dummy bundle, hastily
made up from some papers that lay about.
When everything had been satisfactorily arranged she went outside and
chattered for a while with the soldier on guard, only re-entering the
room by one door as Montalvo appeared in it through the other.
“Well, my friend,” he said, “have you the evidence?”
“I have some evidence, Excellency,” she answered. “I was present at the
dinner that you ate last night, although none of it came my way, and—I
was present afterwards.”
“Indeed. I thought I saw you slip in, and allow me to congratulate you
on that; it was very well thought out and done, just as folk were
moving up and down the stairs. Also, when I went home, I believe that I
recognised a gentleman in the street whom I have been given to
understand you honour with your friendship, a short, stout person with
a bald head; let me see, he was called the Butcher at The Hague, was he
not? No, do not pout, I have no wish to pry into the secrets of ladies,
but still in my position here it is my business to know a thing or two.
Well, what did you see?”
“Excellency, I saw the young man I was sent to watch and Hendrik Brant,
the son of the rich goldsmith at The Hague, praying side by side upon
their knees.”
“That is bad, very bad,” said Montalvo shaking his head, “but——”
“I saw,” she went on in her hoarse voice, “the pair of them read the
Bible.”
“How shocking!” replied Montalvo with a simulated shudder. “Think of
it, my orthodox friend, if you are to be believed, these two persons,
hitherto supposed to be respectable, have been discovered in the crime
of consulting that work upon which our Faith is founded. Well, those
who could read anything so dull must, indeed, as the edicts tell us, be
monsters unworthy to live. But, if you please, your proofs. Of course
you have this book?”
Then Black Meg poured forth all her tale—how she had watched and seen
something, how she had listened and heard little, how she had gone to
the secret panel, bending over the sleeping man, and found—nothing.
“You are a poor sort of spy, mother,” commented the captain when she
had done, “and, upon my soul, I do not believe that even a Papal
inquisitor could hang that young fellow on your evidence. You must go
back and get some more.”
“No,” answered Black Meg with decision, “if you want to force your way
into conventicles you had best do it yourself. As I wish to go on
living here is no job for me. I have proved to you that this young man
is a heretic, so now give me my reward.”
“Your reward? Ah! your reward. No, I think not at present, for a reward
presupposes services—and I see none.”
Black Meg began to storm.
“Be silent,” said Montalvo, dropping his bantering tone. “Look, I will
be frank with you. I do not want to burn anybody. I am sick of all this
nonsense about religion, and for aught I care every Netherlander in
Leyden may read the Bible until he grows tired. I seek to marry that
Jufvrouw Lysbeth van Hout, and to do this I desire to prove that the
man whom she loves, Dirk van Goorl, is a heretic. What you have told me
may or may not be sufficient for my purpose. If it is sufficient you
shall be paid liberally after my marriage; if not—well, you have had
enough. As for your evidence, for my part I may say that I do not
believe a word of it, for were it true you would have brought the
Bible.”
As he spoke he rang a bell which stood upon a table, and before Meg
could answer the soldier appeared.
“Show this good woman out,” he said, adding, in a loud voice, “Mother,
I will do my best for you and forward your petition to the proper
quarter. Meanwhile, take this trifle in charity,” and he pressed a
florin into her hand. “Now, guard, the prisoners, the prisoners. I have
no time to waste—and listen—let me be troubled with no more beggars, or
you will hear of it.”
That afternoon Dirk, filled with a solemn purpose, and dressed in his
best suit, called at the house in the Bree Straat, where the door was
again opened by Greta, who looked at him expectantly.
“Is your mistress in?” he stammered. “I have come to see your
mistress.”
“Alas! Mynheer,” answered the young woman, “you are just too late. My
mistress and her aunt, the Vrouw Clara, have gone away to stay for a
week or ten days as the Vrouw Clara’s health required a change.”
“Indeed,” said Dirk aghast, “and where have they gone?”
“Oh! Mynheer, I do not know that, they did not tell me,” and no other
answer could he extract from her.
So Dirk went away discomfited and pondering. An hour later the Captain
Montalvo called, and strange to say proved more fortunate. By hook or
by crook he obtained the address of the ladies, who were visiting, it
appeared, at a seaside village within the limits of a ride. By a
curious coincidence that very afternoon Montalvo, also seeking rest and
change of air, appeared at the inn of this village, giving it out that
he proposed to lodge there for a while.
As he walked upon the beach next day, whom should he chance to meet but
the Vrouw Clara van Ziel, and never did the worthy Clara spend a more
pleasant morning. So at least she declared to Lysbeth when she brought
her cavalier back to dinner.
The reader may guess the rest. Montalvo paid his court, and in due
course Montalvo was refused. He bore the blow with a tender
resignation.
“Confess, dear lady,” he said, “that there is some other man more
fortunate.”
Lysbeth did not confess, but, on the other hand, neither did she deny.
“If he makes you happy I shall be more than satisfied,” the Count
murmured, “but, lady, loving you as I do, I do not wish to see you
married to a heretic.”
“What do you mean, Señor?” asked Lysbeth, bridling.
“Alas!” he answered, “I mean that, as I fear, the worthy Heer Dirk van
Goorl, a friend of mine for whom I have every respect, although he has
outstripped me in your regard, has fallen into that evil net.”
“Such accusations should not be made,” said Lysbeth sternly, “unless
they can be proved. Even then——” and she stopped.
“I will inquire further,” replied the swain. “For myself I accept the
position, that is until you learn to love me, if such should be my
fortune. Meanwhile I beg of you at least to look upon me as a friend, a
true friend who would lay down his life to serve you.”
Then, with many a sigh, Montalvo departed home to Leyden upon his
beautiful black horse, but not before he had enjoyed a few minutes’
earnest conversation with the worthy Tante Clara.
“Now, if only this old lady were concerned,” he reflected as he rode
away, “the matter might be easy enough, and the Saints know it would be
one to me, but unhappily that obstinate pig of a Hollander girl has all
the money in her own right. In what labours do not the necessities of
rank and station involve a man who by disposition requires only ease
and quiet! Well, my young friend Lysbeth, if I do not make you pay for
these exertions before you are two months older, my name is not Juan de
Montalvo.”
Three days later the ladies returned to Leyden. Within an hour of their
arrival the Count called, and was admitted.
“Stay with me,” said Lysbeth to her Aunt Clara as the visitor was
announced, and for a while she stayed. Then, making an excuse, she
vanished from the room, and Lysbeth was left face to face with her
tormentor.
“Why do you come here?” she asked; “I have given you my answer.”
“I come for your own sake,” he replied, “to give you my reasons for
conduct which you may think strange. You remember a certain
conversation?”
“Perfectly,” broke in Lysbeth.
“A slight mistake, I think, Jufvrouw, I mean a conversation about an
excellent friend of yours, whose spiritual affairs seem to interest
you.”
“What of it, Señor?”
“Only this; I have made inquiries and——”
Lysbeth looked up unable to conceal her anxiety.
“Oh! Jufvrouw, let me beg of you to learn to control your expression;
the open face of childhood is so dangerous in these days.”
“He is my cousin.”
“I know; were he anything more, I should be so grieved, but we can most
of us spare a cousin or two.”
“If you would cease amusing yourself, Señor——”
“And come to the point? Of course I will. Well, the result of my
inquiries has been to find out that this worthy person _is_ a heretic
of the most pernicious sort. I said inquiries, but there was no need
for me to make any. He has been——”
“Not denounced,” broke in Lysbeth.
“Oh! my dear lady, again that tell-tale emotion from which all sorts of
things might be concluded. Yes—denounced—but fortunately to myself as a
person appointed under the Edict. It will, I fear, be my duty to have
him arrested this evening—you wish to sit down, allow me to hand you a
chair—but I shall not deal with the case myself. Indeed, I propose to
pass him over to the worthy Ruard Tapper, the Papal Inquisitor, you
know—every one has heard of the unpleasant Tapper—who is to visit
Leyden next week, and who, no doubt, will make short work of him.”
“What has he done?” asked Lysbeth in a low voice, and bending down her
head to hide the working of her features.
“Done? My dear lady, it is almost too dreadful to tell you. This
misguided and unfortunate young man, with another person whom the
witnesses have not been able to identify, was seen at midnight reading
the Bible.”
“The Bible! Why should that be wrong?”
“Hush! Are you also a heretic? Do you not know that all this heresy
springs from the reading of the Bible? You see, the Bible is a very
strange book. It seems that there are many things in it which, when
read by an ordinary layman, appear to mean this or that. When read by a
consecrated priest, however, they mean something quite different. In
the same way, there are many doctrines which the layman cannot find in
the Bible that to the consecrated eye are plain as the sun and the
moon. The difference between heresy and orthodoxy is, in short, the
difference between what can actually be found in the letter of this
remarkable work, and what is really there—according to their
holinesses.”
“Almost thou persuadest me——” began Lysbeth bitterly.
“Hush! lady—to be, what you are, an angel.”
There came a pause.
“What will happen to him?” asked Lysbeth.
“After—after the usual painful preliminaries to discover accomplices, I
presume the stake, but possibly, as he has the freedom of Leyden, he
might get off with hanging.”
“Is there no escape?”
Montalvo walked to the window, and looking out of it remarked that he
thought it was going to snow. Then suddenly he wheeled round, and
staring hard at Lysbeth asked,
“Are you really interested in this heretic, and do you desire to save
him?”
Lysbeth heard and knew at once that the buttons were off the foils. The
bantering, whimsical tone was gone. Now her tormentor’s voice was stern
and cold, the voice of a man who was playing for great stakes and meant
to win them.
She also gave up fencing.
“I am and I do,” she answered.
“Then it can be done—at a price.”
“What price?”
“Yourself in marriage within three weeks.”
Lysbeth quivered slightly, then sat still.
“Would not my fortune do instead?” she asked.
“Oh! what a poor substitute you offer me,” Montalvo said, with a return
to his hateful banter. Then he added, “That offer might be considered
were it not for the abominable laws which you have here. In practice it
would be almost impossible for you to hand over any large sum, much of
which is represented by real estate, to a man who is not your husband.
Therefore I am afraid I must stipulate that you and your possessions
shall not be separated.”
Again Lysbeth sat silent. Montalvo, watching her with genuine interest,
saw signs of rebellion, perchance of despair. He saw the woman’s mental
and physical loathing of himself conquering her fears for Dirk. Unless
he was much mistaken she was about to defy him, which, as a matter of
fact, would have proved exceedingly awkward, as his pecuniary resources
were exhausted. Also on the very insufficient evidence which he
possessed he would not have dared to touch Dirk, and thus to make
himself a thousand powerful enemies.
“It is strange,” he said, “that the irony of circumstances should
reduce me to pleading for a rival. But, Lysbeth van Hout, before you
answer I beg you to think. Upon the next movements of your lips it
depends whether that body you love shall be stretched upon the rack,
whether those eyes which you find pleasant shall grow blind with agony
in the darkness of a dungeon, and whether that flesh which you think
desirable shall scorch and wither in the furnace. Or, on the other
hand, whether none of these things shall happen, whether this young man
shall go free, to be for a month or two a little piqued—a little
bitter—about the inconstancy of women, and then to marry some opulent
and respected heretic. Surely you could scarcely hesitate. Oh! where is
the self-sacrificing spirit of the sex of which we hear so much?
Choose.”
Still there was no answer. Montalvo, playing his trump card, drew from
his vest an official-looking document, sealed and signed.
“This,” he said, “is the information to be given to the incorruptible
Ruard Trapper. Look, here written on it is your cousin’s name. My
servant waits for me in your kitchen. If you hesitate any longer, I
call him and in your presence charge him to hand that paper to the
messenger who starts this afternoon for Brussels. Once given it cannot
be recalled and the pious Dirk’s doom is sealed.”
Lysbeth’s spirit began to break. “How can I?” she asked. “It is true
that we are not affianced; perhaps for this very reason which I now
learn. But he cares for me and knows that I care for him. Must I then,
in addition to the loss of him, be remembered all his life as little
better than a light-of-love caught by the tricks and glitter of such a
man as you? I tell you that first I will kill myself.”
Again Montalvo went to the window, for this hint of suicide was most
disconcerting. No one can marry a dead woman, and Lysbeth was scarcely
likely to leave a will in his favour. It seemed that what troubled her
particularly was the fear lest the young man should think her conduct
light. Well, why should she not give him a reason which he would be the
first to acknowledge as excellent for breaking with him? Could she, a
Catholic, be expected to wed a heretic, and could he not be made to
tell her that he was a heretic?
Behold an answer to his question! The Saints themselves, desiring that
this pearl of price should continue to rest in the bosom of the true
Church, had interfered in his behalf, for there in the street below was
Dirk van Goorl approaching Lysbeth’s door. Yes, there he was dressed in
his best burgher’s suit, his brow knit with thought, his step
hesitating; a very picture of the timid, doubtful lover.
“Lysbeth van Hout,” said the Count, turning to her, “as it chances the
Heer Dirk van Goorl is at your door. You will admit him, and this
matter can be settled one way or the other. I wish to point out to you
how needless it is that the young man should be left believing that you
have treated him ill. All which is necessary is that you should ask
whether or no he is of your faith. If I know him, he will not lie to
you. Then it remains only for you to say—for doubtless the man comes
here to seek your hand—that however much it may grieve you to give such
an answer, you can take no heretic to husband. Do you understand?”
Lysbeth bowed her head.
“Then listen. You will admit your suitor; you will allow him to make
his offer to you now—if he is so inclined; you will, before giving any
answer, ask him of his faith. If he replies that he is a heretic, you
will dismiss him as kindly as you wish. If he replies that he is a true
servant of the Church, you will say that you have heard a different
tale and must have time to make inquiries. Remember also that if by one
jot you do otherwise than I have bid you, when Dirk van Goorl leaves
the room you see him for the last time, unless it pleases you—to attend
his execution. Whereas if you obey and dismiss him finally, as the door
shuts behind him I put this Information in the fire and satisfy you
that the evidence upon which it is based is for ever deprived of weight
and done with.”
Lysbeth looked a question.
“I see you are wondering how I should know what you do or do not do. It
is simple. I shall be the harmless but observant witness of your
interview. Over this doorway hangs a tapestry; you will grant me the
privilege—not a great one for a future husband—of stepping behind it.”
“Never, never,” said Lysbeth, “I cannot be put to such a shame. I defy
you.”
As she spoke came the sound of knocking at the street door. Glancing up
at Montalvo, for the second time she saw that look which he had worn at
the crisis of the sledge race. All its urbanity, its careless
_bonhomie_, had vanished. Instead of these appeared a reflection of the
last and innermost nature of the man, the rock foundation, as it were,
upon which was built the false and decorated superstructure that he
showed to the world. There were the glaring eyes, there the grinning
teeth of the Spanish wolf; a ravening brute ready to rend and tear, if
so he might satisfy himself with the meat his soul desired.
“Don’t play tricks with me,” he muttered, “and don’t argue, for there
is no time. Do as I bid you, girl, or on your head will be this
psalm-singing fellow’s blood. And, look you, don’t try setting him on
me, for I have my sword and he is unarmed. If need be a heretic may be
killed at sight, you know, that is by one clothed with authority. When
the servant announces him go to the door and order that he is to be
admitted,” and picking up his plumed hat, which might have betrayed
him, Montalvo stepped behind the arras.
For a moment Lysbeth stood thinking. Alas! she could see no possible
escape, she was in the toils, the rope was about her throat. Either she
must obey or, so she thought, she must give the man she loved to a
dreadful death. For his sake she would do it, for his sake and might
God forgive her! Might God avenge her and him!
Another instant and there came a knock upon the door. She opened it.
“The Heer van Goorl stands below,” said the voice of Greta, “wishing to
see you, madam.”
“Admit him,” answered Lysbeth, and going to a chair almost in the
centre of the room, she seated herself.
Presently Dirk’s step sounded on the stair, that known, beloved step
for which so often she had listened eagerly. Again the door opened and
Greta announced the Heer van Goorl. That she could not see the Captain
Montalvo evidently surprised the woman, for her eyes roamed round the
room wonderingly, but she was too well trained, or too well bribed, to
show her astonishment. Gentlemen of this kidney, as Greta had from time
to time remarked, have a faculty for vanishing upon occasion.
So Dirk walked into the fateful chamber as some innocent and
unsuspecting creature walks into a bitter snare, little knowing that
the lady whom he loved and whom he came to win was set as a bait to
ruin him.
“Be seated, cousin,” said Lysbeth, in a voice so forced and strained
that it caused him to look up. But he saw nothing, for her head was
turned away from him, and for the rest his mind was too preoccupied to
be observant. By nature simple and open, it would have taken much to
wake Dirk into suspicion in the home and presence of his love and
cousin, Lysbeth.
“Good day to you, Lysbeth,” he said awkwardly; “why, how cold your hand
is! I have been trying to find you for some time, but you have always
been out or away, leaving no address.”
“I have been to the sea with my Aunt Clara,” she answered.
Then for a while—five minutes or more—there followed a strained and
stilted conversation.
“Will the booby never come to the point?” reflected Montalvo, surveying
him through a join in the tapestry. “By the Saints, what a fool he
looks!”
“Lysbeth,” said Dirk at last, “I want to speak to you.”
“Speak on, cousin,” she answered.
“Lysbeth, I—I—have loved you for a long while, and I—have come to ask
you to marry me. I have put it off for a year or more for reasons which
I hope to tell you some day, but I can keep silent no longer,
especially now when I see that a much finer gentleman is trying to win
you—I mean the Spanish Count, Montalvo,” he added with a jerk.
She said nothing in reply. So Dirk went on pouring out all his honest
passion in words that momentarily gathered weight and strength, till at
length they were eloquent enough. He told her how since first they met
he had loved her and only her, and how his one desire in life was to
make her happy and be happy with her. Pausing at length he began to
speak of his prospects—then she stopped him.
“Your pardon, Dirk,” she said, “but I have a question to ask of you,”
and her voice died away in a kind of sob. “I have heard rumours about
you,” she went on presently, “which must be cleared up. I have heard,
Dirk, that by faith you are what is called a heretic. Is it true?”
He hesitated before answering, feeling that much depended on that
answer. But it was only for an instant, since Dirk was far too honest a
man to lie.
“Lysbeth,” he said, “I will tell to you what I would not tell to any
other living creature, not being one of my own brotherhood, for whether
you accept me or reject me, I know well that I am as safe in speaking
to you as when upon my knees I speak to the God I serve. I _am_ what
you call a heretic. I am a member of that true faith to which I hope to
draw you, but which if you do not wish it I should never press upon
you. It is chiefly because I am what I am that for so long I have hung
back from speaking to you, since I did not know whether it would be
right—things being thus—to ask you to mix your lot with mine, or
whether I ought to marry you, if you would marry me, keeping this
secret from you. Only the other night I sought counsel of—well, never
mind of whom—and we prayed together, and together searched the Word of
God. And there, Lysbeth, by some wonderful mercy, I found my prayer
answered and my doubts solved, for the great St. Paul had foreseen this
case, as in that Book all cases are foreseen, and I read how the
unbelieving wife may be sanctified by the husband, and the unbelieving
husband by the wife. Then everything grew clear to me, and I determined
to speak. And now, dear, I have spoken, and it is for you to answer.”
“Dirk, dear Dirk,” she replied almost with a cry, “alas! for the answer
which I must give you. Renounce the error of your ways, make
confession, and be reconciled to the Church and—I will marry you.
Otherwise I cannot, no, and although I love you, you and no other
man”—here she put an energy into her voice that was almost
dreadful—“with all my heart and soul and body; I cannot, I cannot, I
cannot!”
Dirk heard, and his ruddy face turned ashen grey.
“Cousin,” he replied, “you seek of me the one thing which I must not
give. Even for your sake I may not renounce my vows and my God as I
behold Him. Though it break my heart to bid you farewell and live
without you, here I pay you back in your own words—I cannot, I cannot,
I cannot!”
Lysbeth looked at him, and lo! his short, massive form and his
square-cut, honest countenance in that ardour of renunciation had
suffered a change to things almost divine. At that moment—to her sight
at least—this homely Hollander wore the aspect of an angel. She ground
her teeth and pressed her hands upon her heart. “For his sake—to save
him,” she muttered to herself—then she spoke.
“I respect you for it, I love you for it more than ever; but, Dirk, it
is over between us. One day, here or hereafter, you will understand and
you will forgive.”
“So be it,” said Dirk hastily, stretching out his hand to find his hat,
for he was too blind to see. “It is a strange answer to my prayer, a
very strange answer; but doubtless you are right to follow your lights
as I am sure that I am right to follow mine. We must carry our cross,
dear Lysbeth, each of us; you see that we must carry our cross. Only I
beg of you—I don’t speak as a jealous man, because the thing has gone
further than jealousy—I speak as a friend, and come what may while I
live you will always find me that—I beg of you, beware of the Spaniard,
Montalvo. I know that he followed you to the coast; I have heard too he
boasts that he will marry you. The man is wicked, although he took me
in at first. I feel it—his presence seems to poison the air, yes, this
very air I breathe. But oh! and I should like him to hear me say it,
because I am sure that he is at the bottom of all this, his hour will
come. For whatever he does he will be paid back; he will be paid back
here and hereafter. And now, good-bye. God bless you and protect you,
dear Lysbeth. If you think it wrong you are quite right not to marry
me, and I know that you will keep my secret. Good-bye, again,” and
lifting her hand Dirk kissed it. Then he stumbled from the room.
As for Lysbeth she cast herself at full length, and in the bitterness
of her heart beat her brow upon the boards.
When the front door had shut behind Dirk, but not before, Montalvo
emerged from his hiding place and stood over the prostrate Lysbeth. He
tried to adopt his airy and sarcastic manner, but he was shaken by the
scene which he had overheard, shaken and somewhat frightened also, for
he felt that he had called into being passions of which the force and
fruits could not be calculated.
“Bravo! my little actress,” he began, then gave it up and added in his
natural voice, “you had best rise and see me burn this paper.”
Lysbeth struggled to her knees and watched him thrust the document
between two glowing peats.
“I have fulfilled my promise,” he said, “and that evidence is done
with, but in case you should think of playing any tricks and not
fulfilling yours, please remember that I have fresh evidence infinitely
more valuable and convincing, to gain which, indeed, I condescended to
a stratagem not quite in keeping with my traditions. With my own ears I
heard this worthy gentleman, who is pleased to think so poorly of me,
admit that he is a heretic. That is enough to burn him any day, and I
swear that if within three weeks we are not man and wife, burn he
shall.”
While he was speaking Lysbeth had risen slowly to her feet. Now she
confronted him, no longer the Lysbeth whom he had known, but a new
being filled like a cup with fury that was the more awful because it
was so quiet.
“Juan de Montalvo,” she said in a low voice, “your wickedness has won
and for Dirk’s sake my person and my goods must pay its price. So be it
since so it must be, but listen. I make no prophecies about you; I do
not say that this or that shall happen to you, but I call down upon you
the curse of God and the execration of men.”
Then she threw up her hands and began to pray. “God, Whom it has
pleased that I should be given to a fate far worse than death; O God,
blast the mind and the soul of this monster. Let him henceforth never
know a peaceful hour; let misfortune come upon him through me and mine;
let fears haunt his sleep. Let him live in heavy labour and die in
blood and misery, and through me; and if I bear children to him, let
the evil be upon them also.”
She ceased. Montalvo looked at her and tried to speak. Again he looked
and again he tried to speak, but no words would come.
Then the fear of Lysbeth van Hout fell upon him, that fear which was to
haunt him all his life. He turned and crept from the room, and his face
was like the face of an old man, nor, notwithstanding the height of his
immediate success, could his heart have been more heavy if Lysbeth had
been an angel sent straight from Heaven to proclaim to him the
unalterable doom of God.