"Then, if thou lovest me, didst pray at Mass this morning for the success of our cause and the confusion of those abominable rebels?"
Grete made no reply, and anon a low, suppressed sob caused Lenora to say, not unkindly:
"Thy heart is with the rebels, Grete."
"I know most of their leaders, noble lady," murmured the girl, through her tears. "They are brave, fine men. When I think of those who surely must die after this, I feel as if my heart must break with sorrow and with pity."
"Didst know them well?"
"Aye, noble lady. They used to come to the 'Three Weavers.'"
"The 'Three Weavers,' Grete?"
"Aye! my father kept the tavern, here in Ghent.... The noble seigniors of the city and the Spanish officers of the garrison all used to come to us in the afternoons.... Messire Jan van Migrode, the Chief Sheriff, Messire Lievin van Deynse and the seigneur de Beauvoir, they all came regularly. And ... and Messire Mark van Rycke," she added under her breath, "him they call Leatherface."
"My husband, Grete," murmured Lenora.
"I know it, noble lady."