"A presentiment, no doubt," rejoined de Vargas with well-feigned gentleness. "Now, my child, you begin to understand--do you not?--why it is that we Spaniards hate these treacherous Netherlanders. They are vile and corrupt to the heart, every single man, woman or child of them. They fear us and have not the pluck to fight us in the open. Orange and his contemptible little army have sought shelter in Holland--they dare not face the valour and enthusiasm of our troops. But mark you, what Orange hath done! He hath sown the entire country with a crop of spies! They are here, there, everywhere--not very cunning and certainly not brave--their orders are to strike in the dark when and how they can. They waylay our Spanish officers in the ill-lighted, and intricate streets of their abominable cities, they dog their footsteps until they meet them in some lowly tavern or a tenebrous archway: then out comes their dagger, swift and sure, and they strike in the gloom--and a gallant Spanish officer’s blood stains the cobblestones of one of their towns. It was don Ramon to-day--it will be Julian Romero perhaps to-morrow--or don Juan de Vargas--who knows? or mayhap the duke of Alva one day. Orange and his crowd are out on a campaign of assassination--an army of assassins has been let loose--and their captain-general wears a mask of leather and our soldiery have dubbed him ’Leatherface’!" "I have heard of this man ’Leatherface,’" said Lenora slowly. "It is he, you think, who murdered Ramon?" "Have we not the soldiers’ testimony?" he rejoined blandly, "two men and the provost saw him quite clearly. As for me, I am not surprised: more than once our spies have reported that the man undoubtedly hailed from Ghent, and once he was traced to the very gates of this city. But," he added insinuatingly, "here he is surrounded by friends: every burgher in Ghent, no doubt, opens wide his hospitable door to the murderer of Spanish officers." "Think you it is likely that the High-Bailiff of Ghent or ... or ... my future husband would harbour such an assassin?" she asked. "Well!" he replied evasively, "all Netherlanders are treacherous. The High-Bailiff himself and his son Mark are said to be loyal ... but there’s another son ... and the mother ... one never knows. It would be strange," he continued unctuously, "if at some future time the murderer of Ramon should find shelter in your house." "I shall pray to the saints," she rejoined with passionate intensity, "that he and I may meet face to face one day."