? These burgomasters must be void
of common sense. What else?"

"For striking down the burgomaster."

"Oh, the hunted boar will turn to bay. 'Tis his right; and I hold him
less than man that grudges it him. What else?"

"For killing of the bloodhounds."

The duke's countenance fell.

"'Twas their life or mine," said Martin eagerly.

"Ay! but I can't have, my bloodhounds, my beautiful bloodhounds,
sacrificed to--

"No, no, no! They were not your dogs."

"Whose dogs, then?"

"The ranger's."

"Oh. Well, I am very sorry for him, but as I was saying I can't have
my old soldiers sacrificed to his bloodhounds. Thou shalt have thy free
pardon."

"And poor Gerard."

"And poor Gerard too, for thy sake. And more, tell thou this burgomaster
his doings mislike me: this is to set up for a king, not a burgomaster.
I'll have no kings in Holland but one. Bid him be more humble; or by St.
Jude I'll hang him before his own door, as I hanged the burgomaster
of what's the name, some town or other in Flanders it was; no, 'twas'
somewhere in Brabant--no matter--I hanged him, I remember that much--for
oppressing poor folk."

The duke then beckoned his chancellor, a pursy old fellow that rode like
a sack, and bade him write out a free pardon for Martin and one Gerard.

This precious document was drawn up in form, and signed next day, and
Martin hastened home with it.

Margaret had left her bed some days, and was sitting pale and pensive
by the fireside, when he burst in, waving the parchment, and crying, "A
free pardon, girl, for Gerard as well as me! Send for him back when you
will; all the burgomasters on earth daren't lay a finger on him."

She flushed all over with joy and her hands trembled with eagerness
as she took the parchment and devoured it with her eyes, and kissed it
again and again, and flung her arms round Martin's neck, and kissed him.
When she was calmer, she told him Heaven had raised her up a friend in
the dame Van Eyck. "And I would fain consult her on this good news; but
I have not strength to walk so far."

"What need to walk? There is my mule."

"Your mule, Martin?"

The old soldier or professional pillager laughed, and confessed he
had got so used to her, that he forgot at times Ghysbrecht had a prior
claim. To-morrow he would turn her into the burgomaster's yard, but
to-night she should carry Margaret to Tergou.

It was nearly dusk; so Margaret ventured, and about seven in the evening
she ast