“That’s right, cousin,” answered Pieter, a pleasant-faced and alert young man, “look at _him_, scold _him_, for he is to blame. Ever since a quarter past two have I—I who must drive a sledge in the great race and am backed to win—been waiting outside that factory in the snow, but, upon my honour, he did not appear until seven minutes since. Yes, we have done the whole distance in seven minutes, and I call that very good skating.” “I thought as much,” said Lysbeth. “Dirk can only keep an appointment with a church bell or a stadhuis chandelier.” “It was not my fault,” broke in Dirk in his slow voice; “I have my business to attend. I promised to wait until the metal had cooled sufficiently, and hot bronze takes no account of ice-parties and sledge races.” “So I suppose that you stopped to blow on it, cousin. Well, the result is that, being quite unescorted, I have been obliged to listen to things which I did not wish to hear.” “What do you mean?” asked Dirk, taking fire at once. Then she told them something of what the woman who called herself the Mare had said to her, adding, “Doubtless the poor creature is a heretic and deserves all that has happened to her. But it is dreadfully sad, and I came here to enjoy myself, not to be sad.” Between the two young men there passed a glance which was full of meaning. But it was Dirk who spoke. The other, more cautious, remained silent. “Why do you say that, Cousin Lysbeth?” he asked in a new voice, a voice thick and eager. “Why do you say that she deserves all that can happen to her? I have heard of this poor creature who is called Mother Martha, or the Mare, although I have never seen her myself. She was noble-born, much better born than any of us three, and very fair—once they called her the Lily of Brussels—when she was the Vrouw van Muyden, and she has suffered dreadfully, for one reason only, because she and hers did not worship God as you worship Him.” “As we worship Him,” broke in Van de Werff with a cough. “No,” answered Dirk sullenly, “as our Cousin Lysbeth van Hout worships Him. For that reason only they killed her husband and her little son, and drove her mad, so that she lives among the reeds of the Haarlemer Meer like a beast in its den; yes, they, the Spaniards and their Spanish priests, as I daresay that they will kill us also.” “Don’t you think that it is getting rather cold standing here?” interrupted Pieter van de Werff before she could answer. “Look, the sledge races are just beginning. Come, cousin, give me your hand,” and, taking Lysbeth by the arm, he skated off into the throng, followed at a distance by Dirk and the serving-maid, Greta. “Cousin,” he whispered as he went, “this is not my place, it is Dirk’s place, but I pray you as you love him—I beg your pardon—as you esteem a worthy relative—do not enter into a religious argument with him here in public, where even the ice and sky are two great ears. It is not safe, little cousin, I swear to you that it is not safe.”