“You are her guardian, as you deal with her—­nay, I must be crazy with my troubles, for none other would think it needful to remind Dirk van Goorl or his son of their duty to the dead.  Farewell, friend and cousin.  God guard you and yours in these dreadful times with which it has pleased Him to visit us for a season, that through us perhaps this country and the whole world may be redeemed from priestcraft and tyranny.  Greet your honoured wife, Lysbeth, from me; also your son Foy, who used to be a merry lad, and whom I hope to see again within a night or two, although it may be fated that we shall not meet.  My blessing on him, especially if he prove faithful in all these things.  May the Almighty who guards us give us a happy meeting in the hereafter which is at hand.  Pray for me.  Farewell, farewell.—­Hendrik Brant.

“P.S.  I beg the dame Lysbeth to see that Elsa wears woollen when the weather turns damp or cold, since her chest is somewhat delicate.  This was my wife’s last charge, and I pass it on to you.  As regards her marriage, should she live, I leave that to your judgment with this command only, that her inclination shall not be forced, beyond what is right and proper.  When I am dead, kiss her for me, and tell her that I loved her beyond any creature now living on the earth, and that wherever I am from day to day I wait to welcome her, as I shall wait to welcome you and yours, Dirk van Goorl.  In case these presents miscarry, I will send duplicates of them, also in mixed cypher, whenever chance may offer.”

Having finished reading the translation of this cypher document, Dirk bent his head while he folded it, not wishing that his face should be seen.  Foy also turned aside to hide the tears which gathered in his eyes, while Lysbeth wept openly.

“A sad letter and sad times!” said Dirk at length.

“Poor Elsa,” muttered Foy, then added, with a return of hopefulness, “perhaps he is mistaken, he may escape after all.”

Lysbeth shook her head as she answered,

“Hendrik Brant is not the man to write like that if there was any hope for him, nor would he part with his daughter unless he knew that the end must be near at hand.”

“Why, then, does he not fly?” asked Foy.

“Because the moment he stirred the Inquisition would pounce upon him, as a cat pounces upon a mouse that tries to run from its corner,” replied his father.  “While the mouse sits still the cat sits also and purrs; when it moves——­”

There was a silence in which Dirk, having fetched the will of Hendrik Brant from a safe hiding place, where it had lain since it reached his hands some months before, opened the seals and read it aloud.

It proved to be a very short document, under the terms of which Dirk van Goorl and his heirs inherited all the property, real and personal, of Hendrik Brant, upon trust, (1) to make such ample provision for his daughter Elsa as might be needful or expedient; (2) to apply the remainder of the money “for the defence of our country, the freedom of religious Faith, and the destruction of the Spaniards in such fashion and at such time or times as God should reveal to them, which,” added the will, “assuredly He will do.”