“What’s the use of that, mother?” said Foy. “Your fretting yourself won’t make things better or worse.”
“Ah! dear, how can I help it?” she replied softly; “we cannot all be young and cheerful, you know.”
“True, wife, true,” broke in Dirk, “though I wish we could; we should be lighter-hearted so,” and he looked at her and sighed.
Lysbeth van Goorl could no longer boast the beauty which was hers when first we met her, but she was still a sweet and graceful woman, her figure remaining almost as slim as it had been in girlhood. The grey eyes also retained their depth and fire, only the face was worn, though more by care and the burden of memories than with years. The lot of the loving wife and mother was hard indeed when Philip the King ruled in Spain and Alva was his prophet in the Netherlands.
“Is it done?” she asked.
“Yes, wife, our brethren are now saints in Paradise, therefore rejoice.”
“It is very wrong,” she answered with a sob, “but I cannot. Oh!” she added with a sudden blaze of indignation, “if He is just and good, why does God suffer His servants to be killed thus?”
“Perhaps our grandchildren will be able to answer that question,” replied Dirk.
“That poor Vrouw Jansen,” broke in Lysbeth, “just married, and so young and pretty. I wonder what will become of her.”
Dirk and Foy looked at each other, and Martin, who was hovering about near the door, slunk back guiltily into the passage as though he had attempted to injure the Vrouw Jansen.