Lucas of Sparendam, "in five
minutes the _sauve qui peut_ will commence."

"We are quite near the coast," said Stoutenburg with outward calm,
though his voice was choked and his tongue clove to the roof of his
mouth, "go you and tell the others, Beresteyn," he added, turning to his
friend, "then collect all our papers that are in the molens. Thank God
there are only a few that might compromise us at all. Heemskerk and van
Does will help you, they are not like to be seized with panic. We can
then make quietly for Scheveningen, where the boats are ready. There is
a sledge here and a pair of horses which I shall need; but it is less
than a league to Scheveningen, and you can all walk it easily. Tell the
others not to lose time and I will follow with the sledge as soon as may
be. There is no cause for a panic and we can all save ourselves."

Beresteyn made ready to go. He took less pains than Stoutenburg to
conceal his terror and his knees frankly shook under him. At the door he
paused. He had suddenly remembered Gilda.

She had risen from her chair and stood now like a statue carved in
stone, white to the lips, wide-eyed, her whole expression one of
infinite horror.

It had all been lies then, all that Stoutenburg had told her yesterday!
He had concealed the monstrous truth, lying to her with every word he
uttered. Now he stood there pale and trembling, the traitor who in his
turn has been betrayed. Fear and blind rage were fighting their last
deathly battle in his soul. The edifice of his treachery was crumbling
around him; God's hand--through an unknown channel--had set the limit to
his crimes. Twice a traitor, he had twice failed. Already he could see
the disbanding of his mercenary troops, the beginning of that mad, wild
flight to the coast, and down the steps of the molens his friends too
were running helter-skelter, without thought of anything save of their
own safety.

It would be so immeasurably horrible to fall into the Stadtholder's
hands.

And Gilda, pale and silent, stood between the two men who had lied to
her, outraged her to the end. Nicolaes was a traitor after all; he had
cast the eternal shroud of shame over the honour and peace of his house.
An God did not help him now, his death would complete that shame.

She tried to hold his glance, but he would not look at her; she felt
that his wrath of her almost bordered on hatred because he believed that
she had betrayed them all. His eyes were fixed up