“Peace, peace! this is no time for angry words,” said the Pastor Arentz, pushing his way through the group of bewildered men and overwrought women.  “He can scarcely be dead; let me look at him, I am something of a doctor,” and he knelt by the senseless and bleeding Adrian to examine him.

“Take comfort, Vrouw van Goorl,” he said presently, “your son is not dead, for his heart beats, nor has his friend Martin injured him in any way by the exercise of his strength, but I think that in his fury he has burst a blood-vessel, for he bleeds fast.  My counsel is that he should be put to bed and his head cooled with cold water till the surgeon can be fetched to treat him.  Lift him in your arms, Martin.”

So Martin carried Adrian, not to the street, but to his bed, while Foy, glad of an excuse to escape the undeserved reproaches of Elsa and the painful sight of his mother’s grief, went to seek the physician.  In due course he returned with him, and, to the great relief of all of them, the learned man announced that, notwithstanding the blood which he had lost, he did not think that Adrian would die, though, at the best, he must keep his bed for some weeks, have skilful nursing and be humoured in all things.

While his wife Lysbeth and Elsa were attending to Adrian, Dirk and his son, Foy, for the Pastor Arentz had gone, sat upstairs talking in the sitting-room, that same balconied chamber in which once Dirk had been refused while Montalvo hid behind the curtain.  Dirk was much disturbed, for when his wrath had passed he was a tender-hearted man, and his stepson’s plight distressed him greatly.  Now he was justifying himself to Foy, or, rather, to his own conscience.

“A man who could speak so of his own mother, was not fit to stop in the same house with her,” he said; “moreover, you heard his words about the pastor.  I tell you, son, I am afraid of this Adrian.”

“Unless that bleeding from his mouth stops soon you will not have cause to fear him much longer,” replied Foy sadly, “but if you want my opinion about the business, father, why here it is—­I think that you have made too much of a small matter.  Adrian is—­Adrian; he is not one of us, and he should not be judged as though he were.  You cannot imagine me flying into a fury because the women forgot to set my place at table, or trying to stab Martin and bursting a blood vessel because you told him to lead me out of the room.  No, I should know better, for what is the use of any ordinary man attempting to struggle against Martin?  He might as well try to argue with the Inquisition.  But then I am I, and Adrian is Adrian.”

“But the words he used, son.  Remember the words.”