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father has finished dressing: go down to him, Mark," she implored. "I cannot bear to meet him with the news."

      And Mark without another word went down to meet his father.

      Charles van Rycke-a fine man of dignified presence and somewhat pompous of manner-was standing in the hall, arrayed ready for the reception, in the magnificent robes of his office. His first word on seeing Mark was to ask for Laurence, the bridegroom-elect and hero of the coming feast.

      "He is a fine-looking lad," said the father complacently, "he cannot fail to find favour in donna Lenora's sight."

      The news had to be told: Mark drew his father into the dining-hall and served him with wine.

      "This marriage will mean a splendid future for us all, Mark," continued the High-Bailiff, as he pledged his son in a tankard of wine: "here's to the happy young people and to the coming prosperity of our house. No more humiliations, Mark; no more fears of that awful Inquisition. We shall belong to the ruling class now, tyranny can touch us no longer."

      And the news had to be told. Clémence van Rycke had said nothing to her husband about Laurence's letter-so it all had to be told, quietly and without preambles.

      "Laurence has gone out of the house, father, vowing that he would never marry donna Lenora de Vargas."

      It took some time before the High-Bailiff realised that Mark was not jesting; the fact had to be dwelt upon, repeated over and over again, explained and insisted on before the father was made to understand that his son had played him false and had placed the family fortunes and the lives of its members in deadly jeopardy thereby.

      "He has gone!" reiterated Mark for the tenth time, "gone with the intention not to return. At the reception to-night the bride will be waiting, and the bridegroom will not be there. The Duke of Alva will ask where is the bride-groom whom he hath chosen for the great honour, and echo will only answer 'Where?'"

      Charles van Rycke was silent. He pushed away from him the tankard and bottle of wine. His face was the colour of lead.

      "This means ruin for us all, Mark," he murmured, "black, hideous ruin; Alva will never forgive; de Vargas will hate us with the hatred born of humiliation… A public affront to his daughter! … O Holy Virgin protect us!" he continued half-incoherently, "it will mean the scaffold for me, the stake for your mother…"

      He rose and said curtly, "I must speak with your mother."

      He went to the door but his step was unsteady. Mark forestalled him and placed himself against the door with his hand on the latch.

      "It means black ruin for us all, Mark," reiterated the High-Bailiff with sombre despair, "I must go and speak of it with your mother."

      "My mother is sick and anxious," said Mark quietly, "she cannot help what Laurence has done-you and I, father, can talk things over quietly without her."

      "There is nothing that you can say, Mark … there is nothing we can do … save, perhaps, pack up a few belongings and clear out of the country as quickly as we can … that is, if there is time!"

      "Your imagination does not carry you very far, meseems," quoth Mark dryly. "Laurence's default is not irreparable."

      "What do you mean?"

      "Am I not here to put it right?"

      "What? – you?"

      "By your leave."

      "You, Mark!"

VI

      The transition from black despair to this sudden ray of hope was too much for the old man: he tottered and nearly measured his length on the floor. Mark had barely the time to save him from the fall. Now he passed his trembling hand across his eyes and forehead: his knees were shaking under him.

      "You, Mark," he murmured again.

      He managed to pour himself out a fresh mug of wine and drank it greedily: then he sat down, for his knees still refused him service.

      "It would be salvation indeed," he said, somewhat more steadily.

      Mark shrugged his shoulders with an air of complete indifference.

      "Well! frankly, father dear," he said, "I think that there is not much salvation for us in introducing a Spaniard into our home. Mother-and Laurence when he comes back-will have to be very careful in their talk. But you seem to think the present danger imminent…"

      "Imminent, ye gods!" exclaimed the High-Bailiff, unable to repress a shudder of terror at the thought. "I tell you, Mark, that de Vargas would never forgive what he would call a public insult-nor would Alva forgive what he would call open disobedience. Those two men-who are all-powerful and as cruel and cunning as fiends-would track us and hunt us down till they had brought you and me to the scaffold and your mother to the stake."

      "I know that, father," interposed Mark with some impatience, "else I would not dream of standing in Laurence's shoes: the bride is very beautiful, but I have no liking for matrimony. The question is, will de Vargas guess the truth; he hath eyes like a lynx."

      "No! no! he will not guess. He only saw Laurence twice-a fortnight ago when I took him up to Brussels and presented him to señor de Vargas and to the Duke: and then again the next evening: both times the lights were dim. No! no! I have no fear of that! de Vargas will not guess! You and your brother are at times so much alike, and donna Lenora hath not seen Laurence yet."

      "And you did not speak of Laurence by name? I shouldn't care to change mine."

      "No, I don't think so. I presented my son to the Duke and to señor de Vargas. It was at His Highness' lodgings: the room was small and dark; and señor de Vargas paid but little heed to us."

      "We Netherlanders are of so little account in the sight of these grandees of Spain," quoth Mark with a light laugh, "and in any case, father, we must take some risk. So will you go and see my mother and calm her fears, whilst I go and don my best doublet and hose. Poor little mother! she hath put one foot into her grave through terror and anxiety on Laurence's account."

      "As for Laurence…" exclaimed the High-Bailiff wrathfully.

      "Don't worry about Laurence, father," broke in Mark quietly. "His marriage with a Spaniard would have been disastrous. He would have fallen violently in love with his beautiful wife, and she would have dragged sufficient information out of him to denounce us all to the Inquisition. Perhaps," he added with good-humoured indifference, "it is all for the best."

      The High-Bailiff rose and placed a hand upon his son's shoulder.

      "You are a true son to me, Mark," he said earnestly, "never shall I forget it. I am a wealthy man-more wealthy than many suppose. In virtue of your marriage with that Spanish wench you will be more free from taxation than we Netherlanders are: I'll make over the bulk of my fortune to you. You shall not regret what you have done for me and for your mother."

      "It is time I went up to dress," was Mark's only comment on his father's kindly speech, and he quietly removed the paternal hand from off his shoulder.

      "Hurry on," said the High-Bailiff cheerfully, "I'll wait until you are ready. I must just run up to your mother and tell her the good news. Nay! but I do believe if that hot-headed young rascal were to turn up now, I would forgive him his senseless escapade. As you say, my dear son, it is all for the best!"

      CHAPTER III

      THE RULING CASTE

I

      Donna Lenora de Vargas stood beside her father whilst he-as representing the Lieutenant-Governor-was receiving the homage of the burghers and patricians of Ghent. This was a great honour for so young a girl, but every one-even the women-declared that donna Lenora was worthy of the honour, and many a man-both young and old-after he had made obeisance before señor de Vargas paused awhile before moving away, in order to gaze on the perfect picture which she presented.

      She was dressed all in white and with extreme simplicity, but the formal mode of the time, the stiff corslet and stomacher, the rigid folds of the brocade and high starched collar set off to perfection the stateliness of her finely proportioned figure, whilst the masses of her soft fair hair crowned her as with a casque

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