... I am no fool," she
repeated sullenly, "I understand."

"Apparently," he retorted dryly.

"Thou dost love her?" she insisted.

"What is it to thee?"

"No matter; only tell me this, dost thou love her?"

"If I said 'yes,'" he asked with his whimsical smile, "wouldst refuse to
help me?"

"Oh, no!"

"And if I said 'no'?"

"I should be glad," she said simply.

"Then we'll say 'no!'" he concluded lightly, "for I would like to see
thee glad."

And he had his wish, for quite a joyous smile lit up her small, pinched
face. She tripped quite briskly to the door and held it open for him.

"If thou desirest to speak with me again," she said, as he finally took
his leave, "give four raps on the door at marked intervals. I would fly
to open it then."

He thanked her and went down stairs, humming a lively tune and never
once turning to look on her again. And yet she was leaning over the
ricketty banisters watching his slowly descending figure, until it
disappeared in the gloom.

CHAPTER XIV

AFTER EVENSONG

Jongejuffrouw Beresteyn had spent many hours in church this New Year's
Day, 1624. In spite of the inclemency of the weather she had attended
Morning Prayer and Holy Communion and now she was back again for
Evensong.

The cathedral was not very full for it. Most people were making merry at
home to celebrate the festival; so Gilda had a corner of the sacred
building all to herself, where she could think matters over silently and
with the help of prayer. The secret of which she had gained knowledge
was weighing heavily on her soul; and heart-rending doubts had assailed
her all night and throughout the day.

How could she know what was the right thing to do?--to allow a crime of
which she had fore-knowledge, to be committed without raising a finger
to prevent it? or to betray her own brother and his friends--a betrayal
which would inevitably lead them to the scaffold?

Her father was of course her great refuge, and to-night through Evensong
she prayed to God to guide her, as to whether she should tell everything
to her father or not. She had warned Nicolaes that she might do so, and
yet her very soul shrank from the act which to many would seem so like
betrayal. Cornelius Beresteyn was a man of rigid principles and
unyielding integrity. What he might do with the knowledge of the
conspiracy in which his own son was taking a leading part, no one--not
even his daughter--could foresee. In no case would