Jan and Myga were still effectively betrothed to each other. No power on earth could have separated them—they had sworn to each other an oath that was mutually binding. What was to become of them, neither of them, as long as Michael lived, could possibly have said.
Michael van Bergen had now been dead and buried for a fortnight, but Jan had disappeared months ago. Was he still alive? Had he drowned at sea? Had the Spaniards boarded his ship, caught him and hanged him?
Who could say?
What would poor abandoned Myga have done with herself, all alone in the world, if Jan really had been dead?
The night gradually drew on, but Myga was afraid to lie down. She was unable to sleep for grief and anxiety, so why should she have gone to bed? It gradually became quite cold in her little room, but she scarcely seemed to feel the cold and did not put more coal on the tiny fire that was burning in the grate. She put away her hand loom and covered her face with her hands, leaning her head on her breast. She sat like this for quite some time till eventually she got up shivering to seek the shelter of her bed.
She was bending down once more to check if the bolts on her door had been correctly adjusted when she heard something and held her breath.
"Myga?" Someone was whispering through the door from outside.
Myga's whole body trembled.
"Oh my God!"
"Myga?" The whispering came again through the keyhole.