at this affront, and spite mingled with the other
motives that brought him here. "Thus it is, then," said he, grinding his
teeth and speaking very fast. "Your son Gerard is more like to be father
of a family than a priest: he is for ever with Margaret, Peter Brandt's
red-haired girl, and loves her like a cow her calf."

Mother and daughter both burst out laughing. Ghysbrecht stared at them.

"What! you knew it?"

"Carry this tale to those who know not my son, Gerard. Women are nought
to him."

"Other women, mayhap. But this one is the apple of his eye to him, or
will be, if you part them not, and soon. Come, dame, make me not waste
time and friendly counsel: my servant has seen them together a score
times, handed, and reading babies in one another's eyes like--you know,
dame--you have been young, too."

"Girl, I am ill at ease. Yea, I have been young, and know how blind
and foolish the young are. My heart! he has turned me sick in a moment.
Kate, if it should be true?"

"Nay, nay!" cried Kate eagerly. "Gerard might love a young woman: all
young men do: I can't find what they see in them to love so; but if he
did, he would let us know; he would not deceive us. You wicked man!
No, dear mother, look not so! Gerard is too good to love a creature of
earth. His love is for our Lady and the saints. Ah! I will show you the
picture there: if his heart was earthly, could he paint the Queen
of Heaven like that--look! look!" and she held the picture out
triumphantly, and, more radiant and beautiful in this moment of
enthusiasm than ever dead picture was or will be, over-powered the
burgomaster with her eloquence and her feminine proof of Gerard's
purity. His eyes and mouth opened, and remained open: in which state
they kept turning, face and all as if on a pivot, from the picture to
the women, and from the women to the picture.

"Why, it is herself," he gasped.

"Isn't it!" cried Kate, and her hostility was softened. "You admire it?
I forgive you for frightening us."

"Am I in a mad-house?" said Ghysbrecht Van Swieten thoroughly puzzled.
"You show me a picture of the girl; and you say he painted it; and that
is a proof he cannot love her. Why, they all paint their sweethearts,
painters do."

"A picture of the girl?" exclaimed Kate, shocked. "Fie! this is no girl;
this is our blessed Lady."

"No, no; it is Margaret Brandt."

"Oh blind! It is the Queen of Heaven."

"No; only of Sevenbergen village."

"Profane man!