Lysbeth van Goorl, recovered from her illness now, but aged and grown stern with suffering, sat in an armchair in the great parlour of her home in the Bree Straat, the room where as a girl she had cursed Montalvo; where too not a year ago, she had driven his son, the traitor Adrian, from her presence. At her side was a table on which stood a silver bell and two brass holders with candles ready to be lighted. She rang the bell and a woman-servant entered, the same who, with Elsa, had nursed her in the plague.
“What is that murmuring in the street?” Lysbeth asked. “I hear the sound of many voices. Is there more news from Haarlem?”
“Alas! yes,” answered the woman. “A fugitive says that the executioners there are weary, so now they tie the poor prisoners back to back and throw them into the mere to drown.”
A groan burst from Lysbeth’s lips. “Foy, my son, is there,” she muttered, “and Elsa Brant his affianced wife, and Martin his servant, and many another friend. Oh! God, how long, how long?” and her head sank upon her bosom.
Soon she raised it again and said, “Light the candles, woman, this place grows dark, and in its gloom I see the ghosts of all my dead.”
They burned up—two stars of light in the great room.
“Whose feet are those upon the stairs?” asked Lysbeth, “the feet of men who bear burdens. Open the large doors, woman, and let that enter which it pleases God to send us.”
So the doors were flung wide, and through them came people carrying a wounded man, then following him Foy and Elsa, and, lastly, towering above them all, Red Martin, who thrust before him another man. Lysbeth rose from her chair to look.
“Do I dream?” she said, “or, son Foy, hath the Angel of the Lord delivered you out of the hell of Haarlem?”
“We are here, mother,” he answered.