" said Martin, "and if I see Dirk Brower or any of his men, I will
shoot an arrow into the oak-tree that is in our garden; and on that
you must run into the forest hard by, and meet me at the weird hunter's
spring. Then I will guide you through the wood."

Surprise thus provided against, Gerard breathed again. He went with
Margaret, and while she watched the oak-tree tremblingly, fearing every
moment to see an arrow strike among the branches, Gerard dug a deep hole
to bury the parchments in.

He threw them in, one by one. They were nearly all charters and records
of the burgh; but one appeared to be a private deed between Floris
Brandt, father of Peter, and Ghysbrecht.

"Why, this is as much yours as his," said Gerard. "I will read this."

"Oh, not now, Gerard, not now," cried Margaret. "Every moment you lose
fills me with fear; and see, large drops of rain are beginning to fall,
and the clouds lower."

Gerard yielded to this remonstrance; but he put the deed into his bosom,
and threw the earth in over the others, and stamped it down. While thus
employed there came a flash of lightning followed by a peal of distant
thunder, and the rain came down heavily. Margaret and Gerard ran into
the house, whither they were speedily followed by Martin.

"The road is clear," said he, "and a heavy storm coming on."

His words proved true. The thunder came nearer and nearer till it
crashed overhead: the flashes followed one another close, like the
strokes of a whip, and the rain fell in torrents. Margaret hid her face
not to see the lightning. On this, Gerard put up the rough shutter and
lighted a candle. The lovers consulted together, and Gerard blessed
the storm that gave him a few hours more with Margaret. The sun set
unperceived, and still the thunder pealed, and the lightning flashed,
and the rain poured. Supper was set; but Gerard and Margaret could not
eat: the thought that this was the last time they should sup together
choked them. The storm lulled a little. Peter retired to rest. But
Gerard was to go at peep of day, and neither he nor Margaret could
afford to lose an hour in sleep. Martin sat a while, too; for he was
fitting a new string to his bow, a matter in which he was very nice.

The lovers murmured their sorrows and their love beside him.

Suddenly the old man held up his hand to them to be silent.

They were quiet and listened, and heard nothing. But the next moment a
footstep crackled faintly upon the autu