y-coloured whisker running from throat to temples, and the bald
head above, which Adrian knew at once for that of Hague Simon, or the
Butcher. Fortunately for him, however, the Butcher was too surprised,
or too much confused by the blow which he had received upon his head,
to recognise his assailant. Nor, having lost his knife, and believing
doubtless that Adrian was only the first of a troop of rescuers, did he
seem inclined to continue the combat, but, calling to his companion
to follow him, he began to run after the woman with a swiftness almost
incredible in a man of his build and weight, turning presently into the
brushwood, where he and his two fellow thieves vanished away.

Adrian dropped the point of his stick and looked round him, for the
whole affair had been so sudden, and the rout of the enemy so complete,
that he was tempted to believe he must be dreaming. Not eighty seconds
ago he was hiding the dead falcon in his satchel, and now behold! he was
a gallant knight who, unarmed, except for a dagger, which he forgot to
draw, had conquered two sturdy knaves and a female accomplice, bristling
with weapons, rescuing from their clutches Beauty (for doubtless the
maiden was beautiful), and, incidentally, her wealthy relatives. Just
then the lady, who had been dragged from the mule to the ground, where
she still lay, struggled to her knees and looked up, thereby causing the
hood of her travelling cloak to fall back from her head.

Thus it was, softened and illuminated by the last pale glow of this
summer evening, that Adrian first saw the face of Elsa Brant, the woman
upon whom, in the name of love, he was destined to bring so much sorrow.

The hero Adrian, overthrower of robbers, looked at the kneeling Elsa,
and knew that she was lovely, as, under the circumstances, was right and
fitting, and the rescued Elsa, gazing at the hero Adrian, admitted to
herself that he was handsome, also that his appearance on the scene had
been opportune, not to say providential.

Elsa Brant, the only child of that Hendrik Brant, the friend and cousin
of Dirk van Goorl, who was already figured in this history, was
just nineteen. Her eyes, and her hair which curled, were brown, her
complexion was pale, suggesting delicacy of constitution, her mouth
small, with a turn of humour about it, and her chin rather large and
firm. She was of middle height, if anything somewhat under it, with an
exquisitely rounded and graceful figure and perfe