CHAPTER XX

IN THE GEVANGENHUIS

When Adrian left the factory he ran on to the house in the Bree Straat.

"Oh! what has happened?" said his mother as he burst into the room where
she and Elsa were at work.

"They are coming for him," he gasped. "The soldiers from the
Gevangenhuis. Where is he? Let him escape quickly--my stepfather."

Lysbeth staggered and fell back into her chair.

"How do you know?" she asked.

At the question Adrian's head swam and his heart stood still. Yet his
lips found a lie.

"I overheard it," he said; "the soldiers are attacking Foy and Martin in
the factory, and I heard them say that they were coming here for him."

Elsa moaned aloud, then she turned on him like a tiger, asking:

"If so, why did you not stay to help them?"

"Because," he answered with a touch of his old pomposity, "my first duty
was towards my mother and you."

"He is out of the house," broke in Lysbeth in a low voice that was
dreadful to hear. "He is out of the house, I know not where. Go, son,
and search for him. Swift! Be swift!"

So Adrian went forth, not sorry to escape the presence of these
tormented women. Here and there he wandered to one haunt of Dirk's after
another, but without success, till at length a noise of tumult drew him,
and he ran towards the sound. Presently he was round the corner, and
this was what he saw.

Advancing down the wide street leading to the Gevangenhuis came a body
of Spanish soldiers, and in the centre of them were two figures whom
it was easy for Adrian to recognise--Red Martin and his brother Foy.
Martin, although his bull-hide jerkin was cut and slashed and his helmet
had gone, seemed to be little hurt, for he was still upright and proud,
walking along with his arms lashed behind him, while a Spanish officer
held the point of a sword, his own sword Silence, near his throat ready
to drive it home should he attempt to escape. With Foy the case was
different. At first Adrian thought that he was dead, for they were
carrying him upon a ladder. Blood fell from his head and legs, while
his doublet seemed literally to be rent to pieces with sword-cuts and
dagger-thrusts; and in truth had it not been for the shirt of mail which
he wore beneath, he must have been slain several times over. But Foy was
not dead, for as Adrian watched he saw his head turn upon the ladder and
his hand rise up and fall again.

But this was not all, for behind appeared a cart drawn by a grey horse,
an