Mark instinctively jumped to his feet; the cries had become pitiable and were multiplied by others which seemed to come from children's throats, and the shouts and curses became more peremptory and more rough.
"What is it?" asked Lenora, not a little frightened.
"Oh! the usual thing," replied Mark hastily, "a woman insulted in the streets, vain protests, rough usage, outrage and probably murder. We are used to such incidents in Flanders," he added quietly.
Already he was half way across the tapperij.
"You are going?" she queried anxiously, "whither?"
"Out into the street," he said, "can you not hear that a woman is in distress?"
"But what can you do?" she urged, "the soldiers are there ... you cannot interfere ... you, a Netherlander...."
"Yes! I, a Netherlander," he said. "It is a Flemish woman who is calling for help now."
He turned to go, and she--with the same instinct that was moving him--rose too and followed him:--the same instinct of protection: his--the man's for the woman who was in distress: hers--the woman's for the man who would pit his strength alone against superior numbers. She overtook him just as he reached the threshold of the tapperij. Beyond it was only the porch, the door of which stood wide open, and beyond that the Grand' Place; the shrieks and the ever-increasing noise of a scuffle came from an adjacent street close by.
"You must not go, Messire," she said insistently, as with both hands she clung to his arms, "what can you do? there is a crowd there ... and the soldiers...."