"Lysbeth van Hout," she cried in shrill, piercing tones, "would you, to
please your Spanish lover, bring your father's playmate to her death?
The Spanish horse is cold and cannot stay, but the poor Netherland
Mare--ah! she may be thrust beneath the blue ice and bide there till her
bones rot at the bottom of the moat. You have sought the Spaniards, you,
whose blood should have warned you against them, and I tell you that it
shall cost you dear; but if you say this word they seek, then it shall
cost you everything, not only the body, but the spirit also. Woe to you,
Lysbeth van Hout, if you cut me off before my work is done. I fear not
death, nay I welcome it, but I tell you I have work to do before I die."

Now, in an agony of mind, Lysbeth turned and looked at Montalvo.

The Count was a man of keen perceptions, and understood it all. Leaning
forward, his arm resting on the back of the sledge, as though to
contemplate the prisoner, he whispered into Lysbeth's ear, so low that
no one else could hear his words.

"Senora," he said, "I have no wishes in this matter. I do not desire to
drown that poor mad woman, but if you confirm the spy's story, drown
she must. At present I am not satisfied, so everything turns upon your
evidence. I do not know what passed between you this afternoon, and
personally I do not care, only, if you should chance to have no clear
recollection of the matter alleged, I must make one or two little
stipulations--very little ones. Let me see, they are--that you will
spend the rest of this evening's fete in my company. Further, that
whenever I choose to call upon you, your door will be open to me, though
I must remind you that, on three occasions already, when I have wished
to pay my respects, it has been shut."