“What is your business with me?” Brant asked sternly.
“Nothing to your hurt, worthy Heer, believe me, nothing to your hurt. Oh! yes, I know that tales are told against me, who only earn an honest living in an honest way, to keep my poor husband, who is an imbecile. Once alas! he followed that mad Anabaptist fool, John of Leyden, the fellow who set up as a king, and said that men might have as many wives as they wished. That was what sent my husband silly, but, thanks be to the Saints, he has repented of his errors and is reconciled to the Church and Christian marriage, and now, I, who have a forgiving nature, am obliged to support him.”
“Your business?” said Brant.
“Mynheer,” she answered, dropping her husky voice, “you are a friend of the Countess Montalvo, she who was Lysbeth van Hout?”
“No, I am acquainted with her, that is all.”
“At least you are a friend of the Heer Dirk van Goorl who has left this town for Alkmaar; he who was her lover?”
“Yes, I am his cousin, but he is not the lover of any married woman.”
“No, no, of course not; love cannot look through a bridal veil, can it? Still, you are his friend, and, therefore, perhaps, her friend, and—she isn’t happy.”
“Indeed? I know nothing of her present life: she must reap the field which she has sown. That door is shut.”
“Not altogether perhaps. I thought it might interest Dirk van Goorl to learn that it is still ajar.”