to be
the tool of others, and bear the burden of their evil doing, should have
been dragged before it was over late, out of the net of the fowler,
have repented of his sins and follies, and, at the risk of his own life,
shown that he was still a man, no longer the base slave of passion and
self-love. For Foy always loved his brother, and knowing him better than
any others knew him, had found it hard to believe that however black
things might look against him, he was at heart a villain.

Thus he thought, and Elsa too had her thoughts, which may be guessed.
They were silent all of them, till of a sudden, Elsa seated in the
stern-sheets, saw Adrian suddenly let fall his oar, throw his arms wide,
and pitch forward against the back of Martin. Yes, and in place of where
he had sat appeared the dreadful countenance of Ramiro, stamped with a
grin of hideous hate such as Satan might wear when souls escape him at
the last. Ramiro recovered and sitting up, for to his feet he could
not rise because of the sword strap, in his hand a thin, deadly-looking
knife.

"_Habet!_" he said with a short laugh, "_habes_, Weather-cock!" and he
turned the knife against himself.

But Martin was on him, and in five more seconds he lay trussed like a
fowl in the bottom of the boat.

"Shall I kill him?" said Martin to Foy, who with Elsa was bending over
Adrian.

"No," answered Foy grimly, "let him take his trial in Leyden. Oh! what
accursed fools were we not to search him!"

Ramiro's face turned a shade more ghastly.

"It is your hour," he said in a hoarse voice, "you have won, thanks to
that dog of a son of mine, who, I trust, may linger long before he dies,
as die he must. Ah! well, this is what comes of breaking my oath to the
Virgin and again lifting my hand against a woman." He looked at Elsa and
shuddered, then went on: "It is your hour, make an end of me at once. I
do not wish to appear thus before those boors."

"Gag him," said Foy to Martin, "lest our ears be poisoned," and Martin
obeyed with good will. Then he flung him down, and there the man lay,
his back supported by the kegs of treasure he had worked so hard and
sinned so deeply to win, making, as he knew well, his last journey to
death and to whatever may lie beyond that solemn gate.

They were passing the island that, many years ago, had formed the
turning post of the great sledge race in which his passenger had been
the fair Leyden heiress, Lysbeth van Hout. Ramiro could s