be sad for her,
but it would be worse if she knew all from the beginning. When I bid her
good-bye to-morrow, it will be for the last time--God give me strength
to bear the blow.

"You are her guardian, as you deal with her--nay, I must be crazy with
my troubles, for none other would think it needful to remind Dirk van
Goorl or his son of their duty to the dead. Farewell, friend and cousin.
God guard you and yours in these dreadful times with which it has
pleased Him to visit us for a season, that through us perhaps this
country and the whole world may be redeemed from priestcraft and
tyranny. Greet your honoured wife, Lysbeth, from me; also your son Foy,
who used to be a merry lad, and whom I hope to see again within a night
or two, although it may be fated that we shall not meet. My blessing
on him, especially if he prove faithful in all these things. May the
Almighty who guards us give us a happy meeting in the hereafter which is
at hand. Pray for me. Farewell, farewell.--Hendrik Brant.

"P.S. I beg the dame Lysbeth to see that Elsa wears woollen when the
weather turns damp or cold, since her chest is somewhat delicate. This
was my wife's last charge, and I pass it on to you. As regards her
marriage, should she live, I leave that to your judgment with this
command only, that her inclination shall not be forced, beyond what is
right and proper. When I am dead, kiss her for me, and tell her that I
loved her beyond any creature now living on the earth, and that wherever
I am from day to day I wait to welcome her, as I shall wait to welcome
you and yours, Dirk van Goorl. In case these presents miscarry, I will
send duplicates of them, also in mixed cypher, whenever chance may
offer."

Having finished reading the translation of this cypher document, Dirk
bent his head while he folded it, not wishing that his face should be
seen. Foy also turned aside to hide the tears which gathered in his
eyes, while Lysbeth wept openly.

"A sad letter and sad times!" said Dirk at length.

"Poor Elsa," muttered Foy, then added, with a return of hopefulness,
"perhaps he is mistaken, he may escape after all."

Lysbeth shook her head as she answered,

"Hendrik Brant is not the man to write like that if there was any hope
for him, nor would he part with his daughter unless he knew that the end
must be near at hand."

"Why, then, does he not fly?" asked Foy.

"Because the moment he stirred the Inquisition would pounce upon him,