working
upon nerves already overstrung had made her half-hysterical. She began
to speak; the words broke from her like water from a dam which it has
breached. She told Foy that she had seen the man, and more--much more.
All the misery which she had suffered, all the love for the father who
was lost to her.

At last Elsa ceased outworn, and, standing still there upon the river
bank she wrung her hands and wept. Till now Foy had said nothing, for
his good spirits and cheerful readiness seemed to have forsaken him.
Even now he said nothing. All he did was to put his arms about this
sweet maid's waist, and, drawing her to him, to kiss her upon brow and
eyes and lips. She did not resist; it never seemed to occur to her to
show resentment; indeed, she let her head sink upon his shoulder like
the head of a little child, and there sobbed herself to silence. At last
she lifted her face and asked very simply:

"What do you want with me, Foy van Goorl?"

"What?" he repeated; "why I want to be your husband."

"Is this a time for marrying and giving in marriage?" she asked again,
but almost as though she were speaking to herself.

"I don't know that it is," he replied, "but it seems the only thing to
do, and in such days two are better than one."

She drew away and looked at him, shaking her head sadly. "My father,"
she began----

"Yes," he interrupted brightening, "thank you for mentioning him, that
reminds me. He wished this, so I hope now that he is gone you will take
the same view."

"It is rather late to talk about that, isn't it, Foy?" she stammered,
looking at his shoulder and smoothing her ruffled hair with her small
white hand. "But what do you mean?"

So word for word, as nearly as he could remember it, he told her all
that Hendrik Brant had said to him in the cellar at The Hague before
they had entered upon the desperate adventure of their flight to the
Haarlemer Meer. "He wished it, you see," he ended.

"My thought was always his thought, and--Foy--I wish it also."

"Priceless things are not lightly won," said he, quoting Brant's words
as though by some afterthought.

"There he must have been talking of the treasure, Foy," she answered,
her face lightening to a smile.

"Ay, of the treasure, sweet, the treasure of your dear heart."

"A poor thing, Foy, but I think that--it rings true."

"It had need, Elsa, yet the best of coin may crack with rough usage."

"Mine will wear till death, Foy."

"I ask no