said, "or, son Foy, hath the Angel of the Lord
delivered you out of the hell of Haarlem?"

"We are here, mother," he answered.

"And whom," she said, pointing to the figure covered with a cloak, "do
you bring with you?"

"Adrian, mother, who is dying."

"Then, son Foy, take him hence; alive, dying, or dead, I have done
with----" Here her eyes fell upon Red Martin and the man he held,
"Martin the Frisian," she muttered, "but who----"

Martin heard, and by way of answer lifted up his prisoner so that the
fading light from the balcony windows fell full upon his face.

"What!" she cried. "Juan de Montalvo as well as his son Adrian, and in
this room----" Then she checked herself and added, "Foy, tell me your
story."

In few words and brief he told it, or so much as she need know to
understand. His last words were: "Mother, be merciful to Adrian; from
the first he meant no ill; he saved all our lives, and he lies dying by
that man's dagger."

"Lift him up," she said.

So they lifted him up, and Adrian, who, since the knife pierced him had
uttered no word, spoke for the first and last time, muttering hoarsely:

"Mother, take back your words and forgive me--before I die."

Now the sorrow-frozen heart of Lysbeth melted, and she bent over him and
said, speaking so that all might hear:

"Welcome to your home again, Adrian. You who once were led astray, have
done bravely, and I am proud to call you son. Though you have left the
faith in which you were bred, here and hereafter may God bless you and
reward you, beloved Adrian!" Then she bent down and kissed his dying
lips. Foy and Elsa kissed him also in farewell before they bore him,
smiling happily to himself, to the chamber, his own chamber, where
within some few hours death found him.

Adrian had been borne away, and for a little while there was silence.
Then, none commanding him, but as though an instinct pushed him forward,
Red Martin began to move up the length of the long room, half dragging,
half carrying his captive Ramiro. It was as if some automaton had
suddenly been put in motion, some machine of gigantic strength that
nothing could stop. The man in his grip set his heels in the floor and
hung back, but Martin scarcely seemed to heed his resistance. On he
came, and the victim with him, till they stood together before the oaken
chair and the stern-faced, white-haired woman who sat in it, her
cold countenance lit by the light of the two candles. She looked