Some days later the bodies of these Spanish soldiers were found with their faces smashed flat. It was suggested in explanation of this plight, that they had got drunk and while fighting together had fallen from the bridge on to the stonework of a pier. This version of their end found a ready acceptance, as it consorted well with the reputations of the men. So there was no search or inquiry.
“I had to finish the dogs,” Martin explained apologetically—“may the Lord Jesus forgive me—because I was afraid that they might know me again by my beard.”
“Alas! alas!” groaned Dirk, “what times are these. Say nothing of this dreadful matter to your mother, son, or to Adrian either.” But Foy nudged Martin in the ribs and muttered, “Well done, old fellow, well done!”
After this experience, which the reader must remember was nothing extraordinary in those dark and dreadful days when neither the lives of men nor the safety of women—especially Protestant men and women—were things of much account, the three of them reached home without further incident, and quite unobserved. Arriving at the house, they entered it near the Watergate by a back door that led into the stableyard. It was opened by a woman whom they followed into a little room where a light burned. Here she turned and kissed two of them, Dirk first and then Foy.
“Thank God that I see you safe,” she said. “Whenever you go to the Meeting-place I tremble until I hear your footsteps at the door.”
“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.