on the pillow, coughed and looked
hectic and interesting.

Then both the women fell upon Foy, upbraiding him for his roughness,
begging him to remember that if he were not careful he might kill his
brother, whose arteries were understood to be in a most precarious
condition, till the poor man covered his ears with his hands and waited
till he saw their lips stop moving.

"I apologise," he said. "I won't touch him, I won't speak loud near him.
Adrian, do you hear?"

"Who could help it?" moaned the prostrate Adrian.

"Cousin Foy," interrupted Elsa, clasping her hands and looking up into
his face with her big brown eyes, "forgive me, but I can wait no longer.
Tell me, did you see or hear anything of my father yonder at The Hague?"

"Yes, cousin, I saw him," answered Foy presently.

"And how was he--oh! and all the rest of them?"

"He was well."

"And free and in no danger?"

"And free, but I cannot say in no danger. We are all of us in danger
nowadays, cousin," replied Foy in the same quiet voice.

"Oh! thank God for that," said Elsa.

"Little enough to thank God for," muttered Martin, who had entered the
room and was standing behind Foy looking like a giant at a show. Elsa
had turned her face away, so Foy struck backwards with all his force,
hitting Martin in the pit of the stomach with the point of his elbow.
Martin doubled himself up, recoiled a step and took the hint.

"Well, son, what news?" said Dirk, speaking for the first time.

"News!" answered Foy, escaping joyfully from this treacherous ground.
"Oh! lots of it. Look here," and plunging his hands into his pockets he
produced first the half of the broken dagger and secondly a long skinny
finger of unwholesome hue with a gold ring on it.

"Bah!" said Adrian. "Take that horrid thing away."

"Oh! I beg your pardon," answered Foy, shuffling the finger back into
his pocket, "you don't mind the dagger, do you? No? Well, then, mother,
that mail shirt of yours is the best that was ever made; this knife
broke on it like a carrot, though, by the way, it's uncommonly sticky
wear when you haven't changed it for three days, and I shall be glad
enough to get it off."

"Evidently Foy has a story to tell," said Adrian wearily, "and the
sooner he rids his mind of it the sooner he will be able to wash. I
suggest, Foy, that you should begin at the beginning."

So Foy began at the beginning, and his tale proved sufficiently moving
to interest even the soul-worn A