“Your pardon, Dirk,” she said, “but I have a question to ask of you,” and her voice died away in a kind of sob. “I have heard rumours about you,” she went on presently, “which must be cleared up. I have heard, Dirk, that by faith you are what is called a heretic. Is it true?” He hesitated before answering, feeling that much depended on that answer. But it was only for an instant, since Dirk was far too honest a man to lie. “Lysbeth,” he said, “I will tell to you what I would not tell to any other living creature, not being one of my own brotherhood, for whether you accept me or reject me, I know well that I am as safe in speaking to you as when upon my knees I speak to the God I serve. I _am_ what you call a heretic. I am a member of that true faith to which I hope to draw you, but which if you do not wish it I should never press upon you. It is chiefly because I am what I am that for so long I have hung back from speaking to you, since I did not know whether it would be right—things being thus—to ask you to mix your lot with mine, or whether I ought to marry you, if you would marry me, keeping this secret from you. Only the other night I sought counsel of—well, never mind of whom—and we prayed together, and together searched the Word of God. And there, Lysbeth, by some wonderful mercy, I found my prayer answered and my doubts solved, for the great St. Paul had foreseen this case, as in that Book all cases are foreseen, and I read how the unbelieving wife may be sanctified by the husband, and the unbelieving husband by the wife. Then everything grew clear to me, and I determined to speak. And now, dear, I have spoken, and it is for you to answer.” “Dirk, dear Dirk,” she replied almost with a cry, “alas! for the answer which I must give you. Renounce the error of your ways, make confession, and be reconciled to the Church and—I will marry you. Otherwise I cannot, no, and although I love you, you and no other man”—here she put an energy into her voice that was almost dreadful—“with all my heart and soul and body; I cannot, I cannot, I cannot!” Dirk heard, and his ruddy face turned ashen grey. “Cousin,” he replied, “you seek of me the one thing which I must not give. Even for your sake I may not renounce my vows and my God as I behold Him. Though it break my heart to bid you farewell and live without you, here I pay you back in your own words—I cannot, I cannot, I cannot!” Lysbeth looked at him, and lo! his short, massive form and his square-cut, honest countenance in that ardour of renunciation had suffered a change to things almost divine. At that moment—to her sight at least—this homely Hollander wore the aspect of an angel. She ground her teeth and pressed her hands upon her heart. “For his sake—to save him,” she muttered to herself—then she spoke. “I respect you for it, I love you for it more than ever; but, Dirk, it is over between us. One day, here or hereafter, you will understand and you will forgive.”