Lysbeth: Chapter 15

Chapter 15

SENOR RAMIRO

If Foy van Goorl, by some magic, could have seen what was passing in
the mind of that fugitive in the boat as he sailed swiftly away from the
scene of death and ruin, bitterly indeed would he have cursed his folly
and inexperience which led him to disregard the advice of Red Martin.

Let us look at this man as he goes gnawing his hand in rage and
disappointment. There is something familiar about his face and bearing,
still gallant enough in a fashion, yet the most observant would find
it difficult to recognise in the Senor Ramiro the handsome and courtly
Count Juan de Montalvo of over twenty years before. A long spell of the
galleys changes the hardiest man, and by ill luck Montalvo, or Ramiro,
to call him by his new name, had been forced to serve nearly his full
time. He would have escaped earlier indeed, had he not been foolish
enough to join in a mutiny, which was discovered and suppressed. It was
in the course of this savage struggle for freedom that he lost his eye,
knocked out with a belaying pin by an officer whom he had just stabbed.
The innocent officer died and the rascal Ramiro died, but without his
good looks.

To a person of gentle birth, however great a scoundrel he might be, the
galleys, which represented penal servitude in the sixteenth century,
were a very rough school. Indeed for the most part the man who went into
them blameless became bad, and the man who went into them bad became
worse, for, as the proverb says, those who have dwelt in hell always
smell of brimstone. Who can imagine the awfulness of it--the chains,
the arduous and continual labour, the whip of the quarter-masters, the
company of thieves and outcast ruffians, all dreadful in its squalid
sameness?

Well, his strength and constitution, coupled with a sort of grim
philosophy, brought him through, and at length Ramiro found himself
a free man, middle-aged indeed, but intelligent and still strong, the
world once more before him. Yet what a world! His wife, believing him
dead, or perhaps wishing to believe it, had remarried and gone with her
husband to New Spain, taking his children with her, and his friends,
such of them as lived, turned their backs upon him. But although he had
been an unlucky man, for with him wickedness had not prospered, he still
had resource and courage.

The Count Montalvo was a penniless outlaw, a byword and a scorn, and so
the Count Montalvo--died, and was buried publicly in the church of his
native village. Strangely enough, however, about the same time the
Senor Ramiro appeared in another part of Spain, where with success he
practised as a notary and man of affairs. Some years went by thus, till
at length, having realised a considerable sum of money by the help of
an ingenious fraud, of which the details are superfluous, an inspiration
took him and he sailed for the Netherlands.

In those dreadful days, in order to further the ends of religious
persecution and of legalised theft, informers were rewarded with a
portion of the goods of heretics. Ramiro's idea--a great one in its
way--was to organise this informing business, and, by interesting a
number of confederates who practically were shareholders in the venture,
to sweep into his net more fortunes, or shares of fortunes, than a
single individual, however industrious, could hope to secure. As he had
expected, soon he found plenty of worthy companions, and the company was
floated. For a while, with the help of local agencies and spies, such as
Black Meg and the Butcher, with whom, forgetting past injuries, he had
secretly renewed his acquaintance, it did very well, the dividends being
large and regular. In such times handsome sums were realised, without
risk, out of the properties of unfortunates who were brought to the
stake, and still more was secured by a splendid system of blackmail
extracted from those who wished to avoid execution, and who, when they
had been sucked dry, could either be burnt or let go, as might prove
most convenient.

Also there were other methods of making money--by an intelligent method
of robbery, by contracts to collect fines and taxes and so forth. Thus
things went well, and, at length, after many years of suffering and
poverty, the Senor Ramiro, that experienced man of affairs, began
to grow rich, until, indeed, driven forward by a natural but unwise
ambition, a fault inherent to daring minds, he entered upon a dangerous
path.

The wealth of Hendrik Brant, the goldsmith, was a matter of common
report, and glorious would be the fortune of him who could secure its
reversion. This Ramiro wished to win; indeed, there was no ostensible
reason why he should not do so, since Brant was undoubtedly a heretic,
and, therefore, legitimate game for any honourable servant of the Church
and King. Yet there were lions in the path, two large and formidable
lions, or rather a lion and the ghost of a lion, for one was material
and the other spiritual. The material lion was that the Government,
or in other words, his august kingship Philip, desired the goldsmith's
thousands for himself, and was therefore likely to be irritated by an
interloper. The spiritual lion was that Brant was connected with Lysbeth
van Goorl, once known as Lysbeth de Montalvo, a lady who had brought
her reputed husband no luck. Often and often during dreary hours of
reflection beneath tropic suns, for which the profession of galley-slave
gave great leisure, the Senor Ramiro remembered that very energetic
curse which his new affianced wife had bestowed upon him, a curse in
which she prayed that through her he might live in heavy labour, that
through her and hers he might be haunted by fears and misfortunes, and
at the last die in misery. Looking back upon the past it would certainly
seem that there had been virtue in this curse, for already through
Lysbeth and his dealings with her, he had suffered the last degradation
and the toil, which could not be called light, of nearly fourteen years
of daily occupation in the galleys.

Well, he was clear of them, and thenceforward, the curse having
exhausted itself for the time being, he had prospered--at any rate to a
moderate extent. But if once more he began to interfere with Lysbeth van
Goorl and her relatives, might it not re-assert its power? That was one
question. Was it worth while to take his risk on the chance of securing
Brant's fortune? That was another. Brant, it was true, was only a cousin
of Lysbeth's husband, but when once you meddled with a member of the
family, it was impossible to know how soon other members would become
mixed up in the affair.

The end may be guessed. The treasure was at hand and enormous, whereas
the wrath of a Heavenly or an earthly king was problematical and far
away. So greed, outstripping caution and superstitious fear, won the
race, and Ramiro threw himself into the adventure with a resource and
energy which in their way were splendid.

Now, as always, he was a man who hated violence for its own sake. It was
no wish of his that the worthy Heer Brant should be unnecessarily burnt
or tortured. Therefore through his intermediaries, as Brant had narrated
in his letter, he approached him with a proposal which, under the
circumstances, was liberal enough--that Brant should hand over
two-thirds of his fortune to him and his confederates, on condition
that he was assisted to escape with the remaining third. To his disgust,
however, this obstinate Dutchman refused to buy his safety at the price
of a single stiver. Indeed, he answered with rude energy that now as
always he was in the hands of God, and if it pleased God that his life
should be sacrificed and his great wealth divided amongst thieves, well,
it must be so, but he, at least, would be no party to the arrangement.

The details of the plots and counter-plots, the attack of the Ramiro
company, the defences of Brant, the internecine struggles between the
members of the company and the agents of the Government, if set out
at length, would fill a considerable book. Of these we already know
something, and the rest may be divined.

In the course of the affair Ramiro had made but one mistake, and that
sprang from what he was wont to consider the weakness of his nature.
Needless to say, it was that he had winked at the escape of Brant's
daughter, Elsa. It may have been superstition that prompted him, or it
may have been pity, or perhaps it was a certain oath of mercy which he
had taken in an hour of need; at any rate, he was content that the girl
should not share the doom which overshadowed her father. He did not
think it at all likely that she would take with her any documents of
importance, and the treasure, of course, she could not take; still, to
provide against accidents he arranged for her to be searched upon the
road.

As we know this search was a failure, and when on the morrow Black Meg
arrived to make report and to warn him that Dirk van Goorl's son and his
great serving-man, whose strength was known throughout the Netherlands,
were on their road to The Hague, he was sure that after all the girl had
carried with her some paper or message.

By this time the whereabouts of Brant's treasure had been practically
solved. It was believed to lie in the string of vessels, although it was
not known that one of these was laden with powder as well as gold. The
plan of the Government agents was to search the vessels as they passed
out to sea and seize the treasure as contraband, which would save much
legal trouble, since under the law or the edicts wealth might not be
shipped abroad by heretics. The plan of Ramiro and his friends was
to facilitate the escape of the treasure to the open sea, where they
proposed to swoop down upon it and convey it to more peaceful shores.

When Foy and his party started down the canal in the boat Ramiro knew
that his opportunity had come, and at once unmoored the big ship and
followed. The attempted stabbing of Foy was not done by his orders, as
he wished the party to go unmolested and to be kept in sight. That was a
piece of private malice on the part of Black Meg, for it was she who was
dressed as a man. On various occasions in Leyden Foy had made remarks
upon Meg's character which she resented, and about her personal
appearance, which she resented much more, and this was an attempt to pay
off old scores that in the issue cost her a finger, a good knife, and a
gold ring which had associations connected with her youth.

At first everything had gone well. By one of the most daring and
masterly manoeuvres that Ramiro had ever seen in his long and varied
experience upon the seas, the little _Swallow_, with her crew of three
men, had run the gauntlet of the fort which was warned and waiting for
her; had sunk and sailed through the big Government boat and her crew of
lubberly soldiers, many of whom, he was glad to reflect, were drowned;
had crushed the officer, against whom he had a personal grudge, like an
egg-shell, and won through to the open sea. There he thought he was sure
of her, for he took it for granted that she would run for the Norfolk
coast, and knew that in the gale of wind which was blowing his larger
and well-manned vessel could pull her down. But then the ill-luck--that
ancient ill-luck which always dogged him when he began to interfere with
the affairs of Lysbeth and her relatives--declared itself.

Instead of attempting to cross the North Sea the little _Swallow_ hugged
the coast, where, for various nautical reasons connected with the wind,
the water, and the build of their respective ships, she had the legs of
him. Next he lost her in the gut, and after that we know what happened.
There was no disguising it; it was a most dreadful fiasco. To have one's
vessel boarded, the expensive vessel in which so large a proportion of
the gains of his honourable company had been invested, not only boarded,
but fired, and the watchman stabbed by a single naked devil of unknown
sex or character was bad enough. And then the end of it!

To have found the gold-laden ship, to have been gulled into attacking
her, and--and--oh! he could scarcely bear to think of it! There was but
one consolation. Although too late to save the others, even through the
mist he had seen that wisp of smoke rising from the hold; yes, he, the
experienced, had smelt a rat, and, warned by some half-divine intuition,
had kept his distance with the result that he was still alive.

But the others! Those gallant comrades in adventure, where were they?
Well, to be frank, he did not greatly care. There was another question
of more moment. Where was the treasure? Now that his brain had cleared
after the shock and turmoil it was evident to him that Foy van Goorl,
Red Martin, and the white devil who had boarded his ship, would not have
destroyed so much wealth if they could help it, and still less would
they have destroyed themselves. Therefore, to pursue the matter to a
logical conclusion, it seemed probable that they had spent the night in
sinking or burying the money, and preparing the pretty trap into which
he had walked. So the secret was in their hands, and as they were still
alive very possibly means could be found to induce them to reveal its
hiding-place. There was still hope; indeed, now that he came to weigh
things, they were not so bad.

To begin with, almost all the shareholders in the affair had perished
by the stern decree of Providence, and he was the natural heir of
their interests. In other words, the treasure, if it was recovered, was
henceforth his property. Further, when they came to hear the story, the
Government would set down Brant's fortune as hopelessly lost, so that
the galling competition from which he had suffered so much was at an
end.

Under these circumstances what was to be done? Very soon, as he sailed
away over the lake in the sweet air of the morning, the Senor Ramiro
found an answer to the question.

The treasure had left The Hague, he must leave The Hague. The secret of
its disposal was at Leyden, henceforth he must live at Leyden. Why not?
He knew Leyden well. It was a pleasant place, but, of course, he might
be recognised there; though, after so long, this was scarcely probable,
for was not the Count de Montalvo notoriously dead and buried? Time and
accident had changed him; moreover, he could bring art to the assistance
of nature. In Leyden, too, he had confederates--Black Meg to wit, for
one; also he had funds, for was he not the treasurer of the company
that this very morning had achieved so remarkable and unsought-for an
ascension?

There was only one thing against the scheme. In Leyden lived Lysbeth van
Goorl and her husband, and with them a certain young man whose parentage
he could guess. More, her son Foy knew the hiding-place of Brant's
hoard, and from him or his servant Martin that secret must be won.
So once again he was destined to match himself against Lysbeth--the
wronged, the dreaded, the victorious Lysbeth, whose voice of
denunciation still rang in his ear, whose eyes of fire still scorched
his soul, the woman whom he feared above everything on earth. He fought
her once for money, and, although he won the money, it had done him
little good, for in the end she worsted him. Now, if he went to Leyden,
he must fight her again for money, and what would be the issue of that
war? Was it worth while to take the risk? Would not history repeat
itself? If he hurt her, would she not crush him? But the treasure, that
mighty treasure, which could give him so much, and, above all, could
restore to him the rank and station he had forfeited, and which he
coveted more than anything in life. For, low as he had fallen, Montalvo
could not forget that he had been born a gentleman.

He would take his chance; he would go to Leyden. Had he weighed the
matter in the gloom of night, or even in a dull and stormy hour,
perhaps--nay probably--he would have decided otherwise. But this morning
the sun shone brightly, the wind made a merry music in the reeds; on the
rippling surface of the lake the marsh-birds sang, and from the shore
came a cheerful lowing of kine. In such surroundings his fears and
superstitions vanished. He was master of himself, and he knew that all
depended upon himself, the rest was dream and nonsense. Behind him lay
the buried gold; before him rose the towers of Leyden, where he could
find its key. A God! that haunting legend of a God of vengeance, in
which priests and others affected to believe? Now that he came to think
of it, what rubbish was here, for as any agent of the Inquisition knew
well, the vengeance always fell upon those who trusted in this same God;
a hundred torture dens, a thousand smoking fires bore witness to the
fact. And if there was a God, why, recognising his personal merits,
only this morning He had selected him out of many to live on and be the
inheritor of the wealth of Hendrik Brant. Yes, he would go to Leyden and
fight the battle out.

At the entry of the gut the Senor Ramiro landed from his boat. At first
he had thought of killing his companion, so that he might remain the
sole survivor of the catastrophe, but on reflection he abandoned this
idea, as the man was a faithful creature of his own who might be useful.
So he bade him return to The Hague to tell the story of the destruction
of the ship _Swallow_ with the treasure, her attackers and her crew,
whoever they might have been. He was to add, moreover, that so far as
he knew the Captain Ramiro had perished also, as he, the steersman, was
left alone in charge of the boat when the vessel blew up. Then he was to
come to Leyden, bringing with him certain goods and papers belonging to
him, Ramiro.

This plan seemed to have advantages. No one would continue to hunt for
the treasure. No one except himself and perhaps Black Meg would know
that Foy van Goorl and Martin had been on board the _Swallow_ and
escaped; indeed as yet he was not quite sure of it himself. For the rest
he could either lie hidden, or if it proved desirable, announce that he
still lived. Even if his messenger should prove faithless and tell the
truth, it would not greatly matter, seeing that he knew nothing which
could be of service to anybody.

And so the steersman sailed away, while Ramiro, filled with memories,
reflections, and hopes, walked quietly through the Morsch Poort into the
good city of Leyden.

That evening, but not until dark had fallen, two other travellers
entered Leyden, namely, Foy and Martin. Passing unobserved through
the quiet streets, they reached the side door of the house in the Bree
Straat. It was opened by a serving-woman, who told Foy that his mother
was in Adrian's room, also that Adrian was very much better. So thither,
followed more slowly by Martin, went Foy, running upstairs three steps
at a time, for had he not a great story to tell!

The interior of the room as he entered it made an attractive picture
which even in his hurry caught Foy's eye and fixed itself so firmly in
his mind that he never forgot its details. To begin with, the place
was beautifully furnished, for his brother had a really good taste in
tapestry, pictures, and other such adornments. Adrian himself lay upon a
richly carved oak bed, pale from loss of blood, but otherwise little the
worse. Seated by the side of the bed, looking wonderfully sweet in the
lamplight, which cast shadows from the curling hair about her brows on
to the delicate face beneath, was Elsa Brant. She had been reading to
Adrian from a book of Spanish chivalry such as his romantic soul loved,
and he, resting on his elbow in the snowy bed, was contemplating her
beauty with his languishing black eyes. Yet, although he only saw her
for a moment before she heard his entry and looked up, it was obvious
to Foy that Elsa remained quite unconscious of the handsome Adrian's
admiration, indeed, that her mind wandered far away from the magnificent
adventures and highly coloured love scenes of which she was reading in
her sweet, low voice. Nor was he mistaken, for, in fact, the poor child
was thinking of her father.

At the further end of the room, talking together earnestly in the deep
and curtained window-place, stood his mother and his father. Clearly
they were as much preoccupied as the younger couple, and it was not
difficult for Foy to guess that fears for his own safety upon his
perilous errand were what concerned them most, and behind them other
unnumbered fears. For the dwellers in the Netherlands in those days
must walk from year to year through a valley of shadows so grim that our
imagination can scarcely picture them.

"Sixty hours and he is not back," Lysbeth was saying.

"Martin said we were not to trouble ourselves before they had been gone
for a hundred," answered Dirk consolingly.

Just then Foy, surveying them from the shadowed doorway, stepped
forward, saying in his jovial voice:

"Sixty hours to the very minute."

Lysbeth uttered a little scream of joy and ran forward. Elsa let the
book fall on to the floor and rose to do the same, then remembered and
stood still, while Dirk remained where he was till the women had done
their greetings, betraying his delight only by a quick rubbing of his
hands. Adrian alone did not look particularly pleased, not, however,
because he retained any special grudge against his brother for his share
in the fracas of a few nights before, since, when once his furious gusts
of temper had passed, he was no malevolently minded man. Indeed he was
glad that Foy had come back safe from his dangerous adventure, only
he wished that he would not blunder into the bedroom and interrupt his
delightful occupation of listening, while the beautiful Elsa read him
romance and poetry.

Since Foy was gone upon his mission, Adrian had been treated with the
consideration which he felt to be his due. Even his stepfather had taken
the opportunity to mumble some words of regret for what had happened,
and to express a hope that nothing more would be said about the matter,
while his mother was sympathetic and Elsa most charming and attentive.
Now, as he knew well, all this would be changed. Foy, the exuberant,
unrefined, plain-spoken, nerve-shaking Foy, would become the centre of
attention, and overwhelm them with long stories of very dull exploits,
while Martin, that brutal bull of a man who was only fit to draw a cart,
would stand behind and play the part of chorus, saying "Ja" and "Neen"
at proper intervals. Well, he supposed that he must put up with it, but
oh! what a weariness it was.

Another minute, and Foy was wringing him by the hand, saying in his loud
voice, "How are you, old fellow? You look as well as possible, what are
you lying in this bed for and being fed with pap by the women?"

"For the love of Heaven, Foy," interrupted Adrian, "stop crushing my
fingers and shaking me as though I were a rat. You mean it kindly, I
know, but--" and Adrian dropped back upon the pillow, coughed and looked
hectic and interesting.

Then both the women fell upon Foy, upbraiding him for his roughness,
begging him to remember that if he were not careful he might kill his
brother, whose arteries were understood to be in a most precarious
condition, till the poor man covered his ears with his hands and waited
till he saw their lips stop moving.

"I apologise," he said. "I won't touch him, I won't speak loud near him.
Adrian, do you hear?"

"Who could help it?" moaned the prostrate Adrian.

"Cousin Foy," interrupted Elsa, clasping her hands and looking up into
his face with her big brown eyes, "forgive me, but I can wait no longer.
Tell me, did you see or hear anything of my father yonder at The Hague?"

"Yes, cousin, I saw him," answered Foy presently.

"And how was he--oh! and all the rest of them?"

"He was well."

"And free and in no danger?"

"And free, but I cannot say in no danger. We are all of us in danger
nowadays, cousin," replied Foy in the same quiet voice.

"Oh! thank God for that," said Elsa.

"Little enough to thank God for," muttered Martin, who had entered the
room and was standing behind Foy looking like a giant at a show. Elsa
had turned her face away, so Foy struck backwards with all his force,
hitting Martin in the pit of the stomach with the point of his elbow.
Martin doubled himself up, recoiled a step and took the hint.

"Well, son, what news?" said Dirk, speaking for the first time.

"News!" answered Foy, escaping joyfully from this treacherous ground.
"Oh! lots of it. Look here," and plunging his hands into his pockets he
produced first the half of the broken dagger and secondly a long skinny
finger of unwholesome hue with a gold ring on it.

"Bah!" said Adrian. "Take that horrid thing away."

"Oh! I beg your pardon," answered Foy, shuffling the finger back into
his pocket, "you don't mind the dagger, do you? No? Well, then, mother,
that mail shirt of yours is the best that was ever made; this knife
broke on it like a carrot, though, by the way, it's uncommonly sticky
wear when you haven't changed it for three days, and I shall be glad
enough to get it off."

"Evidently Foy has a story to tell," said Adrian wearily, "and the
sooner he rids his mind of it the sooner he will be able to wash. I
suggest, Foy, that you should begin at the beginning."

So Foy began at the beginning, and his tale proved sufficiently moving
to interest even the soul-worn Adrian. Some portions of it he softened
down, and some of it he suppressed for the sake of Elsa--not very
successfully, indeed, for Foy was no diplomatist, and her quick
imagination filled the gaps. Another part--that which concerned her
future and his own--of necessity he omitted altogether. He told them
very briefly, however, of the flight from The Hague, of the sinking of
the Government boat, of the run through the gale to the Haarlem Mere
with the dead pilot on board and the Spanish ship behind, and of the
secret midnight burying of the treasure.

"Where did you bury it?" asked Adrian.

"I have not the slightest idea," said Foy. "I believe there are about
three hundred islets in that part of the Mere, and all I know is that
we dug a hole in one of them and stuck it in. However," he went on in
a burst of confidence, "we made a map of the place, that is--" Here he
broke off with a howl of pain, for an accident had happened.

While this narrative was proceeding, Martin, who was standing by him
saying "Ja" and "Neen" at intervals, as Adrian foresaw he would, had
unbuckled the great sword Silence, and in an abstracted manner was
amusing himself by throwing it towards the ceiling hilt downwards, and
as it fell catching it in his hand. Now, most unaccountably, he looked
the other way and missed his catch, with the result that the handle of
the heavy weapon fell exactly upon Foy's left foot and then clattered to
the ground.

"You awkward beast!" roared Foy, "you have crushed my toes," and he
hopped towards a chair upon one leg.

"Your pardon, master," said Martin. "I know it was careless; my mother
always told me that I was careless, but so was my father before me."

Adrian, overcome by the fearful crash, closed his eyes and sighed.

"Look," said Lysbeth in a fury, "he is fainting; I knew that would be
the end of all your noise. If you are not careful we shall have him
breaking another vessel. Go out of the room, all of you. You can finish
telling the story downstairs," and she drove them before her as a
farmer's wife drives fowls.

"Martin," said Foy on the stairs, where they found themselves together
for a minute, for at the first signs of the storm Dirk had preceded
them, "why did you drop that accursed great sword of yours upon my
foot?"

"Master," counted Martin imperturbably, "why did you hit me in the pit
of the stomach with your elbow?"

"To keep your tongue quiet."

"And what is the name of my sword?"

"Silence."

"Well, then, I dropped the sword 'Silence' for the same reason. I hope
it hasn't hurt you much, but if it did I can't help it."

Foy wheeled round. "What do you mean, Martin?"

"I mean," answered the great man with energy, "that you have no right to
tell what became of that paper which Mother Martha gave us."

"Why not? I have faith in my brother."

"Very likely, master, but that isn't the point. We carry a great secret,
and this secret is a trust, a dangerous trust; it would be wrong to lay
its burden upon the shoulders of other folk. What people don't know they
can't tell, master."

Foy still stared at him, half in question, half in anger, but Martin
made no further reply in words. Only he went through certain curious
motions, motions as of a man winding slowly and laboriously at something
like a pump wheel. Foy's lips turned pale.

"The rack?" he whispered. Martin nodded, and answered beneath his
breath,

"They may all of them be on it yet. You let the man in the boat escape,
and that man was the Spanish spy, Ramiro; I am sure of it. If they don't
know they can't tell, and though we know we shan't tell; we shall die
first, master."

Now Foy trembled and leaned against the wall. "What would betray us?" he
asked.

"Who knows, master? A woman's torment, a man's--" and he put a strange
meaning into his voice, "a man's--jealousy, or pride, or vengeance. Oh!
bridle your tongue and trust no one, no, not your father or mother,
or sweetheart, or--" and again that strange meaning came into Martin's
voice, "or brother."

"Or you?" queried Foy, looking up.

"I am not sure. Yes, I think you may trust me, though there is no
knowing how the rack might change a man's mind."

"If all this be so," said Foy, with a flush of sudden passion, "I have
said too much already."

"A great deal too much, master. If I could have managed it I should have
dropped the sword Silence on your toe long before. But I couldn't, for
the Heer Adrian was watching me, and I had to wait till he closed his
eyes, which he did to hear the better without seeming to listen."

"You are unjust to Adrian, Martin, as you always have been, and I am
angry with you. Say, what is to be done now?"

"Now, master," replied Martin cheerfully, "you must forget the teaching
of the Pastor Arentz, and tell a lie. You must take up your tale where
you left it off, and say that we made a map of the hiding-place, but
that--I--being a fool--managed to drop it while we were lighting the
fuses, so that it was blown away with the ship. I will tell the same
story."

"Am I to say this to my father and mother?"

"Certainly, and they will quite understand why you say it. My mistress
was getting uneasy already, and that was why she drove us from the room.
You will tell them that the treasure is buried but that the secret of
its hiding-place was lost."

"Even so, Martin, it is not lost; Mother Martha knows it, and they all
will guess that she does know it."

"Why, master, as it happened you were in such a hurry to get on with
your story that I think you forgot to mention that she was present at
the burying of the barrels. Her name was coming when I dropped the sword
upon your foot."

"But she boarded and fired the Spanish ship--so the man Ramiro and his
companion would probably have seen her."

"I doubt, master, that the only person who saw her was he whose gizzard
she split, and he will tell no tales. Probably they think it was you or
I who did that deed. But if she was seen, or if they know that she
has the secret, then let them get it from Mother Martha. Oh! mares can
gallop and ducks can dive and snakes can hide in the grass. When they
can catch the wind and make it give up its secrets, when they can charm
from sword Silence the tale of the blood which it has drunk throughout
the generations, when they can call back the dead saints from heaven and
stretch them anew within the torture-pit, then and not before, they will
win knowledge of the hoard's hiding-place from the lips of the witch of
Haarlem Meer. Oh! master, fear not for her, the grave is not so safe."

"Why did you not caution me before, Martin?"

"Because, master," answered Martin stolidly, "I did not think that you
would be such a fool. But I forgot that you are young--yes, I forget
that you are young and good, too good for the days we live in. It is my
fault. On my head be it."

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