tent tears. In this other box are three
hundred and forty golden angels, being the rent and fines I have
received from that land more than Floris Brandt's debt to me, I have
kept it compt, still meaning to be just one day; but Avarice withheld
me, pray, good people, against temptation! I was not born dishonest: yet
you see."

"Well, to be sure!" cried Catherine. "And you the burgomaster! Hast
whipt good store of thieves in thy day. However," said she, on second
thoughts, "'tis better late than never, What, Margaret, art deaf? The
good man hath brought thee back thine own. Art a rich woman. Alack, what
a mountain o' gold!"

"Bid him keep land and gold, and give me back my Gerard, that he stole
from me with his treason," said Margaret, with her head still averted.

"Alas!" said Ghysbrecht, "would I could, what I can I have done. Is it
nought? It cost me a sore struggle; and I rose from my last bed to do it
myself, lest some mischance should come between her and her rights."

"Old man," said Margaret, "since thou, whose idol is pelf, hast done
this, God and the saints will, as I hope, forgive thee. As for me, I am
neither saint nor angel, but only a poor woman, whose heart thou hast
broken, Speak to him, Kate, for I am like the dead."

Kate meditated a little while; and then her soft silvery voice fell
like a soothing melody upon the air, "My poor sister hath a sorrow that
riches cannot heal, Give her time, Ghysbrecht; 'tis not in nature she
should forgive thee all. Her boy is fatherless; and she is neither maid,
wife, nor widow; and the blow fell but two days syne, that laid her
heart a bleeding."

A single heavy sob from Margaret was the comment to these words.

"Therefore, give her time! And ere thou diest, she will forgive thee
all, ay, even to pleasure me, that haply shall not be long behind thee,
Ghysbrecht. Meantime, we, whose wounds be sore, but not so deep as hers,
do pardon thee, a penitent and a dying man; and I, for one, will pray
for thee from this hour; go in peace!"

Their little oracle had spoken; it was enough. Eli even invited him
to break a manchet and drink a stoup of wine to give him heart for his
journey.

But Ghysbrecht declined, and said what he had done was a cordial to him,
"Man seeth but a little way before him, neighbour. This land I clung
so to it was a bed of nettles to me all the time. 'Tis gone; and I feel
happier and livelier like for the loss on't."

He called his men, and they