e gloom of the galleys, had arisen this evil genius of
her life; yes, and, by a strange fatality, of the life of Elsa Brant
also, since it was her, she swore, who had dragged down her father.
Lysbeth was a brave woman, one who had passed through many dangers, but
her whole heart turned sick with terror at the sight of this man, and
sick it must remain till she, or he, were dead. She could well guess
what he had come to seek. It was that cursed treasure of Hendrik Brant's
which had drawn him. She knew from Elsa that for a year at least the man
Ramiro had been plotting to steal this money at The Hague. He had failed
there, failed with overwhelming and shameful loss through the bravery
and resource of her son Foy and their henchman, Red Martin. Now he had
discovered their identity; he was aware that they held the secret of
the hiding-place of that accursed hoard, they and no others, and he had
established himself in Leyden to wring it out of them. It was clear,
clear as the setting orb of the red sun before her. She knew the
man--had she not lived with him?--and there could be no doubt about
it, and--he was the new governor of the Gevangenhuis. Doubtless he has
purchased that post for his own dark purposes and--to be near them.

Sick and half blind with the intensity of her dread, Lysbeth staggered
home. She must tell Dirk, that was her one thought; but no, she had been
in contact with the plague, first she must purify herself. So she went
to her room, and although it was summer, lit a great fire on the hearth,
and in it burned her garments. Then she bathed and fumigated her hair
and body over a brazier of strong herbs, such as in those days of
frequent and virulent sickness housewives kept at hand, after which she
dressed herself afresh and went to seek her husband. She found him at
a desk in his private room reading some paper, which at her approach he
shuffled into a drawer.

"What is that, Dirk?" she asked with sudden suspicion.

He pretended not to hear, and she repeated the query.

"Well, wife, if you wish to know," he answered in his blunt fashion, "it
is my will."

"Why are you reading your will?" she asked again, beginning to tremble,
for her nerves were afire, and this simple accident struck her as
something awful and ominous.

"For no particular reason, wife," he replied quietly, "only that we
all must die, early or late. There is no escape from that, and in these
times it is more often early than late, so