The words came up from the street beneath. At the third or fourth repetition Wat rose wearily and, with a dull and hopeless heart, went to the window whence he was wont to feed the dog with pellets of bread in the morning. A girl, small and slim of body, plainly attired in a black dress, stood directly underneath. Wat was about to turn back again to his couch, thinking that the summons could not have been intended for him, when the maid eagerly beckoned him to remain. "Do you not remember me?" she said; "I am the Little Marie. I have never gone back to the Hostel of the Coronation. I have been very wicked. I know I have brought you here. I know that you cannot forgive me; but tell me something--anything that I may do for you?" "It is not at all your fault that I am here," replied Wat Gordon, "only that of my own mad folly. Do not reproach yourself, nor trouble yourself, I pray you. There is nothing at all that you can do for me--" "No one you love to whom I could carry a message--a letter?" The girl looked wistfully up at him as she said this. "I would deliver it so safely, so secretly." A little before, Wat would gladly, eagerly indeed, have accepted the offer, and sent her at once to the street of Zaandpoort, in spite of his dismissal. But now his eyes had seen. "Nay, Little Marie," he said, smiling sadly. "There is no one whom I love, no one who cares in the least to hear of me or of my welfare." The girl stood still, plucking at the lace on her black sleeve, and looking down. "Run home now, Little Marie," said Wat, kindly. "I am glad you have left the Hostel of the Coronation. Do not go back there any more." The girl stood still in her place beneath the window. At last she said, without looking up, "There is one whom you do not love, who cares much that you are in prison and alone!" "And who may that be, Marie--old Jack Scarlett, mayhap?" The girl looked up for a moment--a sudden, flashing look through blinding tears. "Only bad-hearted Little Marie--that would die for you!" she said, brokenly. And without caring even to wipe away her tears, she walked slowly down the midst of the Street of the Prison, seeing no one at all, and answering none of the greetings that were showered upon her. CHAPTER XIII MY LORD OF BARRA'S VOW Kate stood at her favorite window, looking down upon five little boys playing barley break in a solemn plantigrade Dutch fashion in the dust of Zaandpoort Street by the canal. Opposite her stood Barra. He was dressed in his customary close-fitting suit of black velvet, and his slim waist was belted by the orange sash of a high councillor, while by his side swung a splendid sword in a scabbard of gold. A light cape of black velvet was about his shoulders, and its orange lining of fine silk drooped gracefully over his arm.