drian. Some portions of it he softened
down, and some of it he suppressed for the sake of Elsa--not very
successfully, indeed, for Foy was no diplomatist, and her quick
imagination filled the gaps. Another part--that which concerned her
future and his own--of necessity he omitted altogether. He told them
very briefly, however, of the flight from The Hague, of the sinking of
the Government boat, of the run through the gale to the Haarlem Mere
with the dead pilot on board and the Spanish ship behind, and of the
secret midnight burying of the treasure.

"Where did you bury it?" asked Adrian.

"I have not the slightest idea," said Foy. "I believe there are about
three hundred islets in that part of the Mere, and all I know is that
we dug a hole in one of them and stuck it in. However," he went on in
a burst of confidence, "we made a map of the place, that is--" Here he
broke off with a howl of pain, for an accident had happened.

While this narrative was proceeding, Martin, who was standing by him
saying "Ja" and "Neen" at intervals, as Adrian foresaw he would, had
unbuckled the great sword Silence, and in an abstracted manner was
amusing himself by throwing it towards the ceiling hilt downwards, and
as it fell catching it in his hand. Now, most unaccountably, he looked
the other way and missed his catch, with the result that the handle of
the heavy weapon fell exactly upon Foy's left foot and then clattered to
the ground.

"You awkward beast!" roared Foy, "you have crushed my toes," and he
hopped towards a chair upon one leg.

"Your pardon, master," said Martin. "I know it was careless; my mother
always told me that I was careless, but so was my father before me."

Adrian, overcome by the fearful crash, closed his eyes and sighed.

"Look," said Lysbeth in a fury, "he is fainting; I knew that would be
the end of all your noise. If you are not careful we shall have him
breaking another vessel. Go out of the room, all of you. You can finish
telling the story downstairs," and she drove them before her as a
farmer's wife drives fowls.

"Martin," said Foy on the stairs, where they found themselves together
for a minute, for at the first signs of the storm Dirk had preceded
them, "why did you drop that accursed great sword of yours upon my
foot?"

"Master," counted Martin imperturbably, "why did you hit me in the pit
of the stomach with your elbow?"

"To keep your tongue quiet."

"And what is the name of my sword?"