While his wife Lysbeth and Elsa were attending to Adrian, Dirk and his son, Foy, for the Pastor Arentz had gone, sat upstairs talking in the sitting-room, that same balconied chamber in which once Dirk had been refused while Montalvo hid behind the curtain. Dirk was much disturbed, for when his wrath had passed he was a tender-hearted man, and his stepson’s plight distressed him greatly. Now he was justifying himself to Foy, or, rather, to his own conscience. “A man who could speak so of his own mother, was not fit to stop in the same house with her,” he said; “moreover, you heard his words about the pastor. I tell you, son, I am afraid of this Adrian.” “Unless that bleeding from his mouth stops soon you will not have cause to fear him much longer,” replied Foy sadly, “but if you want my opinion about the business, father, why here it is—I think that you have made too much of a small matter. Adrian is—Adrian; he is not one of us, and he should not be judged as though he were. You cannot imagine me flying into a fury because the women forgot to set my place at table, or trying to stab Martin and bursting a blood vessel because you told him to lead me out of the room. No, I should know better, for what is the use of any ordinary man attempting to struggle against Martin? He might as well try to argue with the Inquisition. But then I am I, and Adrian is Adrian.” “But the words he used, son. Remember the words.” “Yes, and if I had spoken them they would have meant a great deal, but in Adrian’s mouth I think no more of them than if they came from some angry woman. Why, he is always sulking, or taking offence, or flying into rages over something or other, and when he is like that it all means—just nothing except that he wants to use fine talk and show off and play the Don over us. He did not really mean to lie to me when he said that I had not seen him talking to Black Meg, he only meant to contradict, or perhaps to hide something up. As a matter of fact, if you want to know the truth, I believe that the old witch took notes for him to some young lady, and that Hague Simon supplied him with rats for his hawks.” “Yes, Foy, that may be so, but how about his talk of the pastor? It makes me suspicious, son. You know the times we live in, and if he should go that way—remember it is in his blood—the lives of every one of us are in his hand. The father tried to burn me once, and I do not wish the child to finish the work.”