ng him back to his place, became
herself again--stern, unmoved, observant.

Next Dirk, taking up his tale, spoke of his wife's fears, and of her
belief that there was a plot to wring out of them the secret of Hendrik
Brant's treasure.

"Happily," he said, addressing Foy, "neither your mother nor I, nor
Adrian, nor Elsa, know that secret; you and Martin know it alone, you
and perhaps one other who is far away and cannot be caught. We do not
know it, and we do not wish to know it, and whatever happens to any of
us, it is our earnest hope that neither of you will betray it, even if
our lives, or your lives, hang upon the words, for we hold it better
that we should keep our trust with a dead man at all costs than that we
should save ourselves by breaking faith. Is it not so, wife?"

"It is so," answered Lysbeth hoarsely.

"Have no fear," said Foy. "We will die before we betray."

"We will try to die before we betray," grumbled Martin in his deep
voice, "but flesh is frail and God knows."

"Oh! I have no doubt of you, honest man," said Dirk with a smile, "for
you have no mother and father to think of in this matter."

"Then, master, you are foolish," replied Martin, "for I repeat it--flesh
is frail, and I always hated the look of a rack. However, I have a
handsome legacy charged upon this treasure, and perhaps the thought of
that would support me. Alive or dead, I should not like to think of my
money being spent by any Spaniard."

While Martin spoke the strangeness of the thing came home to Foy. Here
were four of them, two of whom knew a secret and two who did not, while
those who did not implored those who did to impart to them nothing of
the knowledge which, if they had it, might serve to save them from a
fearful doom. Then for the first time in his young and inexperienced
life he understood how great erring men and women can be and what
patient majesty dwells in the human heart, that for the sake of a trust
it does not seek can yet defy the most hideous terrors of the body
and the soul. Indeed, that scene stamped itself upon his mind in such
fashion that throughout his long existence he never quite forgot it for
a single day. His mother, clad in her frilled white cap and grey gown,
seated cold-faced and resolute in the oaken chair. His father, to whom,
although he knew it not, he was now speaking for the last time, standing
by her, his hand resting upon her shoulder and addressing them in his
quiet, honest voice.