“Madam, you have only to accept my escort, and I assure you that you need fear no more robbers.  Might I in turn ask this lady’s name?”

“Certainly, young sir, she is Elsa Brant, the only child of Hendrik Brant, the famous goldsmith of The Hague, but doubtless now that you know her name you know all that also, for she must be some kind of cousin to you.  Husband, help Elsa on to her mule.”

“Let that be my duty,” said Adrian, and, springing forward, he lifted Elsa to the saddle gracefully enough.  Then, taking her mule by the bridle, he walked onwards through the wood praying in his heart that the Butcher and his companions would not find courage to attack them again before they were out of its depths.

“Tell me, sir, are you Foy?” asked Elsa in a puzzled voice.

“No,” answered Adrian, shortly, “I am his brother.”

“Ah! that explains it.  You see I was perplexed, for I remember Foy when I was quite little; a beautiful boy, with blue eyes and yellow hair, who was always very kind to me.  Once he stopped at my father’s house at The Hague with his father.”

“Indeed,” said Adrian, “I am glad to hear that Foy was ever beautiful.  I can only remember that he was very stupid, for I used to try to teach him.  At any rate, I am afraid you will not think him beautiful now—­that is, unless you admire young men who are almost as broad as they are long.”

“Oh!  Heer Adrian,” she answered, laughing, “I am afraid that fault can be found with most of us North Holland folk, and myself among the number.  You see it is given to very few of us to be tall and noble-looking like high-born Spaniards—­not that I should wish to resemble any Spaniard, however lovely she might be,” Elsa added, with a slight hardening of her voice and face.  “But,” she went on hurriedly, as though sorry that the remark had escaped her, “you, sir, and Foy are strangely unlike to be brothers; is it not so?”

“We are half-brothers,” said Adrian looking straight before him; “we have the same mother only; but please do not call me ‘sir,’ call me ‘cousin.’”

“No, I cannot do that,” she replied gaily, “for Foy’s mother is no relation of mine.  I think that I must call you ‘Sir Prince,’ for, you see, you appeared at exactly the right time; just like the Prince in the fairy-tales, you know.”

Here was an opening not to be neglected by a young man of Adrian’s stamp.

“Ah!” he said in a tender voice, and looking up at the lady with his dark eyes, “that is a happy name indeed.  I would ask no better lot than to be your Prince, now and always charged to defend you from every danger.” (Here, it may be explained, that, however exaggerated his language, Adrian honestly meant what he said, seeing that already he was convinced that to be the husband of the beautiful heiress of one of the wealthiest men in the Netherlands would be a very satisfactory walk in life for a young man in his position.)