"Why do you say that she deserves all that can happen to her?
I have heard of this poor creature who is called Mother Martha, or the Mare, although I have never seen her myself.

She was noble-born, much better born than any of us three, and very fair--once they called her the Lily of Brussels--when she was the Vrouw van Muyden, and she has suffered dreadfully, for one reason only, because she and hers did not worship God as you worship Him." "As we worship Him," broke in Van de Werff with a cough.
"No," answered Dirk sullenly, "as our Cousin Lysbeth van Hout worships Him.

For that reason only they killed her husband and her little son, and drove her mad, so that she lives among the reeds of the Haarlemer Meer like a beast in its den; yes, they, the Spaniards and their Spanish priests, as I daresay that they will kill us also." "Don't you think that it is getting rather cold standing here ?" interrupted Pieter van de Werff before she could answer.

"Look, the sledge races are just beginning.

Come, cousin, give me your hand," and, taking Lysbeth by the arm, he skated off into the throng, followed at a distance by Dirk and the serving-maid, Greta.
"Cousin," he whispered as he went, "this is not my place, it is Dirk's place, but I pray you as you love him--I beg your pardon--as you esteem a worthy relative--do not enter into a religious argument with him here in public, where even the ice and sky are two great ears.