Beresteyn and Stoutenburg said nothing for a while. They looked silently on one another, the same burning anxiety glowing in their eyes, the same glance of mute despair passing from one to the other.
"Gilda!" murmured Stoutenburg at last.
The swish of the woman's skirt had died away in the distance; not one of the men had attempted to follow her or to intercept her passage.
Jongejuffrouw Beresteyn, no spy of course, just a chance eavesdropper! but possessed nevertheless now of a secret which meant death to them all!
"How much did she hear think you?" asked Stoutenburg at last.
He had replaced his sword in his scabbard with a gesture that expressed his own sense of fatality. He could not use his sword against a woman—even had that woman not been Gilda Beresteyn.
"She cannot have heard much," said one of the others, "we spoke in whispers."
"If she had heard anything she would have known that only the west door was to remain open. Yet she has made straight for the north portal," suggested another.
"If she did not hear the verger speaking she could not have heard what we said," argued a third somewhat lamely.
Every one of them had some suggestion to put forward, some surmise to express, some hope to urge. Only Beresteyn said nothing. He had stood by, fierce and silent ever since he had first recognized his sister; beneath his lowering brows the resolve had not died out of his eyes, and he still held his sword unsheathed in his hand.