She swept past him, leaving him not a little bewildered and completely abashed. He watched her tall, graceful figure as she sailed through the portico and thence across the castle-yard, then he shrugged his shoulders as if to cast aside any feeling of responsibility which threatened to worry him, and returned to the guard-room and to his game of hazard. It was only then that he recollected that it lacked another two hours to Benediction yet. In the yard Lenora had more serious misgivings. "There’s the guard at the gate-house," she murmured. "Keep up thy look of unconcern, Grete. We can only win if we are bold." As she anticipated the provost at the gate-house challenged her. "I go to St. Pharaïlde," she said calmly, "my father is with me. He hath stopped to speak with Captain de Avila. Lower the bridge, provost, and let us pass. We are late enough for Benediction as it is." The provost hesitated for a moment. "The seigneur capitaine sent me orders just now that no one was to leave the Kasteel," he said. "Am I under the seigneur capitaine’s orders," she retorted, "or the daughter of señor de Vargas, who will punish thee, sirrah, for thine insolence?" The provost, much disturbed in his mind, had not the courage to run counter to the noble lady’s wish. He had had no orders with regard to her, and as she very rightly said, she was not under the orders of the seigneur capitaine. He ordered the bridge to be lowered for her, vaguely intending not to let her pass until he assured himself that señor de Vargas was nigh: but Lenora gave him no time for reflection: she waited until the bridge was down, then suddenly she seized Grete’s hand and quick as a young hare she darted past the provost and the guard before they thought of laying hands on her, and she was across the bridge before they had recovered from their surprise. Once on the open ground Lenora drew breath. The provost and the guard could not very well run after her, and for the moment she was safe from pursuit. On ahead lay the sharp bend of the Lower Schelde, beyond it the ruined mass of the Vleeshhuis, and the row of houses, now all shattered to pieces, where the Orangists held their watch. Her heart was beating furiously, and she felt Grete’s rough little hand quivering in hers. She felt such a tiny atom, a mere speck in this wide open space. In front of her was the city, which seemed even in the silence of this Sunday afternoon to be quivering in the throes of oncoming death: to right and left of her the great tract of flat country, this land of Belgium which she had not yet learned to love but for which she now felt a wonderful pity.