e-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."

In the centre of the mere the great event of the day, the sledge races,
were now in progress. As the competitors were many these must be run in
heats, the winners of each heat standing on one side to compete in the
final contest. Now these victors had a pretty prerogative not unlike
that accorded to certain dancers in the cotillion of modern days. Each
driver of a sledge was bound to carry a passenger in the little car in
front of him, his own place being on the seat behind, whence he directed
the horse by means of reins supported upon a guide-rod so fashioned
that it lifted them above the head of the traveller in the car. This
passenger he could select from among the number of ladies who were
present at the games; unless, indeed, the gentleman in charge of her
chose to deny him in set form; namely, by stepping forward and saying in
the appointed phrase, "No, for this happy hour she is mine."

Among the winners of these heats was a certain Spanish officer, the
Count Don Juan de Montalvo, who, as it chanced, in the absence on
leave of his captain, was at that date the commander of the garrison at
Leyden. He was a man still