roaned Martin, as well he might, for with his naked
shoulder wedged against one of the cross pieces of the door he was
striving to press it to so that the bolt could be shot into its socket.

Heavens! what a struggle was that. Martin's blue eyes seemed to be
starting from his head, his tongue lolled out and the muscles of his
body rose in great knots. Foy hopped to him and pushed as well as he was
able. It was little that he could do standing upon one leg only, for now
the sinews of the other had given way again; still that little made
the difference, for let the soldiers on the further side strive as they
might, slowly, very slowly, the thick door quivered to its frame. Martin
glanced at the bolt, for he could not speak, and with his left hand Foy
slowly worked it forward. It was stiff with disuse, it caught upon the
edge of the socket.

"Closer," he gasped.

Martin made an effort so fierce that it was hideous to behold, for
beneath the pressure the blood trickled from his nostrils, but the door
went in the sixteenth of an inch and the rusty bolt creaked home into
its stone notch.

Martin stepped back, and for a moment stood swaying like a man about to
fall. Then, recovering himself, he leapt at the sword Silence which hung
upon the wall and passed its thong over his right wrist. Next he turned
towards the door of the court-room.

"Where are you going?" asked Foy.

"To bid _him_ farewell," hissed Martin.

"You're mad," said Foy; "let's fly while we can. That door may
give--they are shouting."

"Perhaps you are right," answered Martin doubtfully. "Come. On to my
back with you."

A few seconds later the two soldiers on guard outside the Gevangenhuis
were amazed to see a huge, red-bearded man, naked save for a loin-cloth,
and waving a great bare sword, who carried upon his back another man,
rush straight at them with a roar. They never waited his onset; they
were terrified and thought that he was a devil. This way and that they
sprang, and the man with his burden passed between them over the little
drawbridge down the street of the city, heading for the Morsch poort.

Finding their wits again the guards started in pursuit, but a voice from
among the passers-by cried out:

"It is Martin, Red Martin, and Foy van Goorl, who escape from the
Gevangenhuis," and instantly a stone flew towards the soldiers.

Then, bearing in mind the fate of their comrades on the yesterday, those
men scuttled back to the friendly s