This lady, though her marriage festivities had but just concluded, and she seemed a creature made for joy and carelessness, followed with an interest almost pathetic the great and terrible events in which her husband moved.
She was talking now of the field-preachings and camp-meetings which had spread with irresistible force all over the country—the answer of the heretics to the decrees of the Council of Trent.
"It is a wonderful thing, is it not, Prince," she said in her soft voice, that seemed only fitted to sing to a lute, "that people will do this for their faith? The penalty is death alike to all; yet they go, men, women, and children—risking death and torture, to stand in the fields to hear some unfrocked monk preach! Is it the Devil makes them so strong?"
"You might rather call it God," said William, looking down at her.
She lifted her face now—a delicate, rather sad face, with beautiful eyes. She fingered her ruff and eased it where it pressed against her cheek, and sighed.
"You seem dismayed, Madame," said the Prince gently.
"Yes," she answered at once. "Because my lord goes to Spain."
"He has resolved on that, then, finally?" asked William quickly.
"Yes—he and Marquis Berghen go this month." She tried to smile. "Is it not hard? I have had him so short a time."
"He might refuse to go," answered the Prince, with some eagerness.