"Pure and good!" exclaimed Clémence with a strident laugh. "A spawn of the devil, without virtue and without mercy. Oh! that my lips should ever have touched her lying face--that white forehead which concealed thoughts of falsehood and treachery! Do not defend her, Laurence, or you will break my heart. Leave her defence to your brother Mark, who cares nothing for his country and for his kindred, who will smile and drink whilst the walls of Ghent fall about his ears, who hath allowed his weak and cowardly heart to be captured by that murderess! Leave him to defend her, I say. Lenora de Vargas is worthy of Mark van Rycke!" "Mother!" cried Laurence with uncontrolled vehemence as he threw his arms round his mother’s shoulders. "In the name of God stop, for you almost blaspheme. Speak not of Mark save with a blessing on your lips. Pray for him this night, as you have never prayed before." "Laurence," cried the mother, "are you mad? What do you mean? What has happened to Mark? Where is he?" "In his bed, no doubt, at this moment, mother." "Sleeping whilst we all weep and pray!" "Sleeping in peace whilst giving up life, and more than life, to try and save us all!" retorted Laurence, as he slowly rose to his feet. "Laurence! you are mad! Mark is..." "Mark is the friend and saviour of the Prince of Orange, mother dear," said the young man quietly, "and we have all known him hitherto as Leatherface." "It is false!" cried Clémence vehemently. "I swear by God that it is true," proclaimed Laurence, fervently. The exclamation which she would have uttered froze upon Clémence van Rycke’s lips; for a moment she remained quite still, leaning slightly forward with hands resting upon the arms of the chair. Then a pitiable moan escaped her, and slowly she rose and then fell upon her knees. "Oh God! forgive me," she cried, "if this be true." "It is true, mother," said Laurence firmly. "For close on two hours to-night I sat close to him whilst he spoke. In the absence of the Prince of Orange we have chosen him as our leader; if the Duke of Alva refuses the proposals which we are going to put before him, Mark will lead us to fight or to death." "The proposal! What proposal?" "That Leatherface be given up to the tyrant as the price of the safety of the city." "And you--his brother--agreed to this infamous suggestion?" murmured Clémence hoarsely. "We must not leave a stone unturned or a man alive to save the women and children," replied Laurence sombrely. "Then may God have mercy on us all!" cried Clémence, and she fell back heart-broken against the cushions of her chair. CHAPTER XIV THE TYRANTS I