more, Elsa. When I am dead, spend it elsewhere; I shall find
it again above where there is no marrying or giving in marriage."

"There would be but small change left to spend, Foy, so look to your own
gold and--see that you do not alter its image and superscription, for
metal will melt in the furnace, and each queen has her stamp."

"Enough," he broke in impatiently. "Why do you talk of such things, and
in these riddles which puzzle me?"

"Because, because, we are not married yet, and--the words are not
mine--precious things are dearly won. Perfect love and perfect peace
cannot be bought with a few sweet words and kisses; they must be earned
in trial and tribulation."

"Of which I have no doubt we shall find plenty," Foy replied cheerfully.
"Meanwhile, the kisses make a good road to travel on."

After this Elsa did not argue any more.

At length they turned and walked homeward through the quiet evening
twilight, hand clasped in hand, and were happy in their way. It was not
a very demonstrative way, for the Dutch have never been excitable, or
at least they do not show their excitement. Moreover, the conditions
of this betrothal were peculiar; it was as though their hands had been
joined from a deathbed, the deathbed of Hendrik Brant, the martyr of
The Hague, whose new-shed blood cried out to Heaven for vengeance. This
sense pressing on both of them did not tend towards rapturous outbursts
of youthful passion, and even if they could have shaken it off and
let their young blood have rein, there remained another sense--that of
dangers ahead of them.

"Two are better than one," Foy had said, and for her own reasons she
had not wished to argue the point, still Elsa felt that to it there was
another side. If two could comfort each other, could help each other,
could love each other, could they not also suffer for each other?
In short, by doubling their lives, did they not also double their
anxieties, or if children should come, treble and quadruple them? This
is true of all marriage, but how much more was it true in such days and
in such a case as that of Foy and Elsa, both of them heretics, both of
them rich, and, therefore, both liable at a moment's notice to be haled
to the torment and the stake? Knowing these things, and having but just
seen the hated face of Ramiro, it is not wonderful that although she
rejoiced as any woman must that the man to whom her soul turned had
declared himself her lover, Elsa could only