They both speak this same word at once, and each one’s lips prevent the other’s uttering more. It is their last lingering, torturing, farewell embrace.
Then, with the decision of the man of war and the man of affairs, Chester throws open the door and Niklaas enters, followed by Juffrouw Wilhelmina, who is in piteous plight and dressed hastily as daughter of a middle-class burgher, with none of her old-time finery about her.
There are traces of tears upon her cheeks that have grown very pale, but her eyes flash with nervous terror and excitement that give a strange, pathetic beauty to her face.
“Hurry! there’s a carriage at the door for you,” mutters the Burgomaster. “I’ve sent what little luggage could be gathered up in haste to the vessel. A maid servant goes with you.”
But this is broken in upon by Mina. She strides up to Hermoine de Alva, who is gazing at her sadly, and mutters brokenly: “Tell me of him!”
“Him—whom?”
“My Oliver. Is he safe?”
“For the present, yes.”
“Thank God!”
“Yes, the traitor Oliver fled from Brussels late last night. This morning word was brought us that with eight men he had captured Mons.”