"But, burgomaster, my labour? Here is a year's work."
"Your labour? Call you marking parchment labour? Little sweat goes to that, I trow."
"'Tis labour, and skilled labour to boot: and that is better paid in all crafts than rude labour, sweat or no sweat. Beside, there's my time."
"Your time? Why what is time to you, at two-and-twenty?" Then fixing his eyes keenly on Gerard, to mark the effect of his words, he said: "Say rather, you are idle grown. You are in love. Your body is with these chanting monks, but your heart is with Peter Brandt and his red-haired girl."
"I know no Peter Brandt."
"This denial confirmed Ghysbrecht's suspicion that the caster-out of demons was playing a deep game.
"Ye lie!" he shouted. "Did I not find you at her elbow, on the road to Rotterdam?"
"Ah!"
"Ah. And you were seen at Sevenbergen but t'other day."
"Was I?"