He put the lamp down and prepared to go, for Clémence and the High-Bailiff have made no comment on the joyful news--perhaps it has failed to reach their dulled senses, perhaps they do not believe it. At any rate, what is victory to them if two brave sons have fallen for its sake? But already the cries through the streets become more insistent and more sure; men and women run hither and thither up and down the Nieuwe Straat, and as Pierre stands by the open door, peering curiously out into the gloom, people shout to him as they rush by: "Van Rycke has seized the Kasteel! The Duke of Alva is a prisoner in our hands." Clémence hears the cries. She can no longer doubt her ears. "Mark? Laurence?" she calls out. "Where are they?" The High-Bailiff rouses himself from his apathy. "I will go to the Town House," he says, "and will be back with news." "News of Mark--and of Laurence," cries the mother. The High-Bailiff goes, and she remains alone in the narrow room, with just the feeble light of the lamp upon her pale face and trembling hands. Now and then still, right through the night, a terrific crash shakes the house to its foundations, or a sudden lurid light flares upwards to the sky--roofs are still falling in, crumbling ruins still burst into flames, but firing and clash of steel have ceased, and from the various churches the peals of bells send their triumphant call through the night. The hours go by. It is nigh on ten o’clock now. The High-Bailiff has not yet returned, but Laurence has just come back--wounded and exhausted but full of the glorious victory. "Where is Mark?" queries the mother. "Mark is hurt ... but he will be here anon," says the boy, "the men have made a stretcher for him--he would not be tended at the Kasteel--he begged to be brought home--oh! mother dear, how we must love him after this!" Clémence hastily gives orders that Messire Mark’s room be made ready for him at once. Jeanne, buxom and capable, is rendered supremely happy by this task. "Mother dear," whispers Laurence, "next to Mark himself, we all owe our salvation to Lenora." He has no time to say more, even though Clémence’s face has hardened at mention of that name which she abhors; for Pierre has just come running in breathless and trembling with excitement. "Mevrouw," he stammers, "it is the noble lady ... the Spanish lady ... it is..." Before Laurence could further question him, he has uttered a cry of surprise, which is echoed by one of horror from Clémence. Lenora was standing under the lintel of the door. Clémence rose from her chair as if moved by a spring and stood up, rigid, and with arm raised, pointing straight to the door: "Go!" she commanded sternly.