Then, sooner or later, might come the informer, that dreadful informer whose shadow already lay heavy upon thousands of homes in the Netherlands, and after the informer the officer, and after the officer the priest, and after the priest the judge, and after the judge--the executioner and the stake.
In this case, what would happen to Lysbeth?
She might prove herself innocent of the horrible crime of heresy, if by that time she was innocent, but what would life become to the loving young woman whose husband and children, perhaps, had been haled off to the slaughter chambers of the Papal Inquisition?
This was the true first cause why Dirk had remained silent, even when he was sorely tempted to speak; yes, although his instinct told him that his silence had been misinterpreted and set down to over-caution, or indifference, or to unnecessary scruples.
The next to wake up that morning was Lysbeth, who, if she was not troubled with headache resulting from indulgence--and in that day women of her class sometimes suffered from it--had pains of her own to overcome.

When sifted and classified these pains resolved themselves into a sense of fiery indignation against Dirk van Goorl.

Dirk had been late for his appointment, alleging some ridiculous excuse about the cooling of a bell, as though she cared whether the bell were hot or cold, with the result that she had been thrown into the company of that dreadful Martha the Mare.

After the Mare--aggravated by Black Meg--came the Spaniard.

Here again Dirk had shown contemptible indifference and insufficiency, for he allowed her to be forced into the Wolf sledge against her will.