id it in the hollow.

"You might lose your sword," suggested Foy.

"Yes, master, when I lose my life and exchange the hope of florins for a
golden crown," replied Martin with a grin. "Till then I do not intend to
part with Silence."

Meanwhile Hendrik Brant had been whispering to the quiet man at the
table, who now rose and said:

"Foster-brother, do not trouble about me; I take my chance and I do
not wish to survive you. My wife is burnt, one of my girls out there is
married to a man who knows how to protect them both, also the dowries
you gave them are far away and safe. Do not trouble about me who
have but one desire--to snatch the great treasure from the maw of the
Spaniard that in a day to come it may bring doom upon the Spaniard."
Then he relapsed into a silence, which spread over the whole company.

"It is time to be stirring," said Brant presently. "Hans, you will lead
the way. I must bide here a while before I go abroad and show myself."

The pilot nodded. "Ready?" he asked, addressing Foy and Martin. Then
he went to the door and whistled, whereon Red Bow with her pretended
servant entered the vault. He spoke a word or two to them and kissed
them each upon the brow. Next he went to Hendrik Brant, and throwing
his arms about him, embraced him with far more passion than he had shown
towards his own daughters.

"Farewell, foster-brother," he said, "till we meet again here or
hereafter--it matters little which. Have no fear, we will get the stuff
through to England if may be, or send it to hell with some Spaniards to
seek it there. Now, comrades, come on and stick close to me, and if any
try to stop us cut them down. When we reach the boat do you take the
oars and row while I steer her. The girls come with us to the canal,
arm-in-arm with the two of you. If anything happens to me either of them
can steer you to the skiff called _Swallow_, but if naught happens we
will put them ashore at the next wharf. Come," and he led the way from
the cellar.

At the threshold Foy turned to look at Hendrik Brant. He was standing by
the table, the light shining full upon his pale face and grizzled head,
about which it seemed to cast a halo. Indeed, at that moment, wrapped in
his long, dark cloak, his lips moving in prayer, and his arms uplifted
to bless them as they went, he might well have been, not a man, but some
vision of a saint come back to earth. The door closed and Foy never
saw him again, for ere long the Inquisi