“Yes, and if I had spoken them they would have meant a great deal, but in Adrian’s mouth I think no more of them than if they came from some angry woman.  Why, he is always sulking, or taking offence, or flying into rages over something or other, and when he is like that it all means—­just nothing except that he wants to use fine talk and show off and play the Don over us.  He did not really mean to lie to me when he said that I had not seen him talking to Black Meg, he only meant to contradict, or perhaps to hide something up.  As a matter of fact, if you want to know the truth, I believe that the old witch took notes for him to some young lady, and that Hague Simon supplied him with rats for his hawks.”

“Yes, Foy, that may be so, but how about his talk of the pastor?  It makes me suspicious, son.  You know the times we live in, and if he should go that way—­remember it is in his blood—­the lives of every one of us are in his hand.  The father tried to burn me once, and I do not wish the child to finish the work.”

“Then when they come out of his hand, you are at liberty to cut off mine,” answered Foy hotly.  “I have been brought up with Adrian, and I know what he is; he is vain and pompous, and every time he looks at you and me he thanks God that he was not made like that.  Also he has failings and vices, and he is lazy, being too fine a gentleman to work like a common Flemish burgher, and all the rest of it.  But, father, he has a good heart, and if any man outside this house were to tell me that Adrian is capable of playing the traitor and bringing his own family to the scaffold, well, I would make him swallow his words, or try to, that is all.  As regards what he said about my mother’s first marriage”—­and Foy hung his head—­“of course it is a subject on which I have no right to talk, but, father, speaking as one man to another—­he is sadly placed and innocent, whatever others may have been, and I don’t wonder that he feels sore about the story.”

As he spoke the door opened and Lysbeth entered.

“How goes it with Adrian, wife?” Dirk asked hastily.

“Better, husband, thank God, though the doctor stays with him for this night.  He has lost much blood, and at the best must lie long abed; above all none must cross his mood or use him roughly,” and she looked at her husband with meaning.

“Peace, wife,” Dirk answered with irritation.  “Foy here has just read me one lecture upon my dealings with your son, and I am in no mood to listen to another.  I served the man as he deserved, neither less nor more, and if he chose to go mad and vomit blood, why it is no fault of mine.  You should have brought him up to a soberer habit.”

“Adrian is not as other men are, and ought not to be measured by the same rule,” said Lysbeth, almost repeating Foy’s words.

“So I have been told before, wife, though I, who have but one standard of right and wrong, find the saying hard.  But so be it.  Doubtless the rule for Adrian is that which should be used to measure angels—­or Spaniards, and not one suited to us poor Hollanders who do our work, pay our debts, and don’t draw knives on unarmed men!”