The girl stood still in her place beneath the window.
At last she said, without looking up, "There is one whom you do not love, who cares much that you are in prison and alone!"
"And who may that be, Marie—old Jack Scarlett, mayhap?"
The girl looked up for a moment—a sudden, flashing look through blinding tears.
"Only bad-hearted Little Marie—that would die for you!" she said, brokenly.
And without caring even to wipe away her tears, she walked slowly down the midst of the Street of the Prison, seeing no one at all, and answering none of the greetings that were showered upon her.
[CHAPTER XIII]
MY LORD OF BARRA'S VOW
Kate stood at her favorite window, looking down upon five little boys playing barley break in a solemn plantigrade Dutch fashion in the dust of Zaandpoort Street by the canal. Opposite her stood Barra. He was dressed in his customary close-fitting suit of black velvet, and his slim waist was belted by the orange sash of a high councillor, while by his side swung a splendid sword in a scabbard of gold. A light cape of black velvet was about his shoulders, and its orange lining of fine silk drooped gracefully over his arm.