cannot, since its secret was never told to me."

"Foy and Martin have it."

"Lysbeth," said Dirk sternly, "I charge you as you love me not to work
upon them to betray their trust; no, not even to save my life or your
own--if we must die, let us die with honour. Do you promise?"

"I promise," she answered with dry lips, "but on this condition only,
that you fly from Leyden with us all, to-night if maybe."

"Good," answered Dirk, "a halfpenny for a herring; you have made your
promise, and I'll give you mine; that's fair, although I am old to seek
a new home in England. But it can't be to-night, wife, for I must make
arrangements. There is a ship sailing to-day, and we might catch her
to-morrow at the river's mouth, after she has passed the officers, for
her captain is a friend of mine. How will that do?"

"I had rather it had been to-night," said Lysbeth. "While we are in
Leyden with that man we are not safe from one hour to the next."

"Wife, we are never safe. It is all in the hands of God, and, therefore,
we should live like soldiers awaiting the hour to march, and rejoice
exceedingly when it pleases our Captain to sound the call."

"I know," she answered; "but, oh! Dirk, it would be hard--to part."

He turned his head aside for a moment, then said in a steady voice,
"Yes, wife, but it will be sweet to meet again and part no more."

While it was still early that morning Dirk summoned Foy and Martin to
his wife's chamber. Adrian for his own reasons he did not summon, making
the excuse that he was still asleep, and it would be a pity to disturb
him; nor Elsa, since as yet there was no necessity to trouble her.
Then, briefly, for he was given to few words, he set out the gist of
the matter, telling them that the man Ramiro whom they had beaten on the
Haarlemer Meer was in Leyden, which Foy knew already, for Elsa had told
him as much, and that he was no other than the Spaniard named the Count
Juan de Montalvo, the villain who had deceived Lysbeth into a mock
marriage by working on her fears, and who was the father of Adrian. All
this time Lysbeth sat in a carved oak chair listening with a stony
face to the tale of her own shame and betrayal. She made no sign at all
beyond a little twitching of her fingers, till Foy, guessing what she
suffered in her heart, suddenly went to his mother and kissed her. Then
she wept a few silent tears, for an instant laid her hand upon his head
as though in blessing, and, motioni