vided the boat and freed them. That was all he had to
say, except to renounce any claim upon her who was called his wife, and
to beg their forgiveness.

Foy listened to the end. Then, dropping his oar for a moment, he put his
arm about Adrian's waist and hugged him, saying in his old cheery voice:

"I was right after all. You know, Adrian, I always stood up for you,
notwithstanding your temper and queer ways. No, I never would believe
that you were a villain, but neither could I ever have believed that you
were quite such an ass."

To this outspoken estimate of his character, so fallen and crushed was
he, his brother had not the spirit to reply. He could merely tug at his
oar and groan, while the tears of shame and repentance ran down his pale
and handsome face.

"Never mind, old fellow," said Foy consolingly. "It all went wrong,
thanks to you, and thanks to you I believe that it will all come right
again. So we will cry quits and forget the rest."

Poor Adrian glanced up at Foy and at Elsa sitting on the thwart of the
boat by his side.

"Yes, brother," he answered, "for you and Elsa it may come right,
but not for me in this world, for I--I have sold myself to the devil
and--got no pay."

After that for a while no one spoke; all felt that the situation was
too tragic for speech; even the follies, and indeed the wickedness, of
Adrian were covered up, were blotted out in the tragedy of his utter
failure, yes, and redeemed by the depth of his atonement.

The grey light of the summer morning began to grow on the surface of the
great inland sea. Far behind them they beheld the sun's rays breaking
upon the gilt crown that is set above the tower of St. Bavon's Church,
soaring over the lost city of Haarlem and the doomed patriots who lay
there presently to meet their death at the murderer's sword. They looked
and shuddered. Had it not been for Adrian they would be prisoners now,
and what that meant they knew. If they had been in any doubt, what they
saw around must have enlightened them, for here and there upon the misty
surface of the lake, or stranded in its shallows, were the half-burnt
out hulls of ships, the remains of the conquered fleet of William
the Silent; a poor record of the last desperate effort to relieve the
starving city. Now and again, too, something limp and soft would cumber
their oars, the corpse of a drowned or slaughtered man still clad
perchance in its armour.

At length they passed out of