till hold fast, but for the most part his
eyes are fixed upon the mist on his left, for that way lies Delft, and
from thence will loom out by and by the avenging hordes sent by the
Prince of Orange.

Now that all those panting, perspiring human creatures have gone, the
frost is more bitter, more biting than before; but neither Piet nor Jan
seem to heed it, though their flesh is blue with the cold. Overhead
there is a tramp of feet; the noble mynheers must have heard the
confusion, they must have seen the flight; they are even now preparing
to do in a slightly more dignified way what the foreign mercenaries and
the louts from the country have done so incontinently.

The prisoner, hearing this tramp of feet over his head, looks more
alertly around him. He sees that Jan and Piet have remained on guard
even whilst the others have fled. He also sees the pile of heaped-up
arms, the broken metal, the rags and the mud, and through the
interstices of the wooden steps the booted feet of the mynheers running
helter-skelter down; and a mad, merry laugh--that holds a world of joy
in its rippling tones--breaks from his lips.

The next moment from far away comes a weird cry through the mist. A fox
on the alert tries to lure his prey with that quaint cry of his, which
appeals to the young birds and encourages them to come. What should a
fox be doing on these ice-covered tracks? he must have strayed from very
far, from over the moor mayhap beyond Gonda; hunger no doubt hath made a
wanderer of him, an exile from his home.

Jan listens--greatly astonished--what should a fox be doing here? Piet
is impassive, he knows nothing of the habits of foxes; sea-wolves are
more familiar to him. With his eyes Jan instinctively questions the
prisoner:

"What should a fox be doing here on these ice-bound flats?" he mutely
asks.

But the prisoner apparently cares nothing about the marvels of nature,
cares nothing about exiled foxes. His head is erect, his eyes dance with
glee, a happy smile lights up his entire face.

Jan remembered that the others last night had called the wounded man the
Laughing Cavalier. A Cavalier he looked, every inch of him; the ropes
mattered nothing, nor the torn clothing; proud, triumphant, happy, he
was laughing with all the light-hearted gaiety which pertains to youth.

The Laughing Cavalier forsooth. Lucky devil! if he can laugh! Jan sighed
and marvelled when the Lord of Stoutenburg would relieve him from his
post