by Beresteyn's grief was too great for words. Hals' eyes
were fixed on his friend, and he tried in vain to read and understand
the enigmatical smile which hovered in every line of that mobile face.
The stillness only lasted a few seconds: the next moment Diogenes'
ringing voice had once more set every lurking echo dancing from rafter
to rafter.

"Mynheer!" he said loudly, "you have lost your daughter. Here am I to do
you service, and by God I swear that I will bring your daughter safely
back to you."

Frans Hals heaved a deep sigh of satisfaction. Cornelius Beresteyn,
overcome by emotion, could not at first utter a word. He put out his
hand, groping for that of the man who had fanned the flames of hope into
living activity.

Diogenes, solemnly trying to look grave and earnest, took the hand thus
loyally offered to him. He could have laughed aloud at the absurdity of
the present situation. He--pledged by solemn word of honour to convey
Jongejuffrouw Beresteyn to Rotterdam and there to place her into the
custody of Ben Isaje, merchant of that city, he--carrying inside his
doublet an order to Ben Isaje to pay him 3,000 guilders, he--known to
the jongejuffrouw as the author of the outrage against her person, he
was here solemnly pledging himself to restore her safely into her
father's arms. How this was to be fulfilled, how he would contrive to
earn that comfortable half of a rich Haarlem merchant's fortune, he
had--we may take it--at the present moment, not the remotest idea: for
indeed, the conveying of the jongejuffrouw back to Haarlem would be no
difficult matter, once his promise to Nicolaes Beresteyn had been
redeemed. The question merely was how to do this without being denounced
by the lady herself as an impudent and double-dealing knave, which
forsooth she already held him to be.

Cornelius and his friends, however, gave him no time now for further
reflection. All the thinking out would have to be done presently--no
doubt on the way between Haarlem and Houdekerk, and probably in a mist
of driving snow--for the nonce he had to stand under the fire of
unstinted eulogy hurled at him from every side.

"Well spoken, young man!"

"'Tis gallant bearing forsooth!"

"Chivalry, indeed, is not yet dead in Holland."

"Are you a Dutchman, sir?"

To this direct query he gave reply:

"My father was one of those who came in English Leicester's train, whose
home was among the fogs of England and under the shadow of her