When Dirk had kissed and welcomed his young cousin he ushered her, still accompanied by the saddle, into the room where his wife and Foy were at supper, and with them the Pastor Arentz, that clergyman who had preached to them on the previous night. Here he found Lysbeth, who had risen from the table anxiously awaiting his return. So dreadful were the times that a knocking on the door at an unaccustomed hour was enough to throw those within into a paroxysm of fear, especially if at the moment they chanced to be harbouring a pastor of the New Faith, a crime punishable with death. That sound might mean nothing more than a visit from a neighbour, or it might be the trump of doom to every soul within the house, signifying the approach of the familiars of the Inquisition and of a martyr’s crown. Therefore Lysbeth uttered a sigh of joy when her husband appeared, followed only by a girl. “Wife,” he said, “here is our cousin, Elsa Brant, come to visit us from The Hague, though why I know not as yet. You remember Elsa, the little Elsa, with whom we used to play so many years ago.” “Yes, indeed,” answered Lysbeth, as she put her arms about her and embraced her, saying, “welcome, child, though,” she added, glancing at her, “you should no longer be called child who have grown into so fair a maid. But look, here is the Pastor Arentz, of whom you may have heard, for he is the friend of your father and of us all.” “In truth, yes,” answered Elsa curtseying, a salute which Arentz acknowledged by saying gravely, “Daughter, I greet you in the name of the Lord, who has brought you to this house safely, for which give thanks.” “Truly, Pastor, I have need to do so since—” and suddenly she stopped, for her eyes met those of Foy, who was gazing at her with such wonder and admiration stamped upon his open face that Elsa coloured at the sight. Then, recovering herself, she held out her hand, saying, “Surely you are my cousin Foy; I should have known you again anywhere by your hair and eyes.” “I am glad,” he answered simply, for it flattered him to think that this beautiful young lady remembered her old playmate, whom she had not seen for at least eleven years, adding, “but I do not think I should have known you.” “Why?” she asked, “have I changed so much?” “Yes,” Foy answered bluntly, “you used to be a thin little girl with red arms, and now you are the most lovely maiden I ever saw.” At this speech everybody laughed, including the Pastor, while Elsa, reddening still more, replied, “Cousin, I remember that _you_ used to be rude, but now you have learned to flatter, which is worse. Nay, I beg of you, spare me,” for Foy showed signs of wishing to argue the point. Then turning from him she slipped off her cloak and sat down on the chair which Dirk had placed for her at the table, reflecting in her heart that she wished it had been Foy who rescued her from the wood thieves, and not the more polished Adrian.