“Oh! perfectly,” replied that young man, grinning.

“Then go to bed for an hour or two, as you may have to keep awake to-morrow night; I will call you at dawn.  Your servant, master and mistress, I hope to report myself to you within sixty hours, but if I do not come within eighty, or let us say a hundred, it may be well to make inquiries,” and he shuffled back to his den.

Youth sleeps well whatever may be behind or before it, and it was not until Martin had called to him thrice next morning that Foy opened his eyes in the grey light, and, remembering, sprang from his bed.

“There’s no hurry,” said Martin, “but it will be as well to get out of Leyden before many people are about.”

As he spoke Lysbeth entered the room fully dressed, for she had not slept that night, carrying in her hand a little leathern bag.

“How is Adrian, mother?” asked Foy, as she stooped down to kiss him.

“He sleeps, and the doctor, who is still with him, says that he does well,” she answered.  “But see here, Foy, you are about to start upon your first adventure, and this is my present to you—­this and my blessing.”  Then she untied the neck of the bag and poured from it something that lay upon the table in a shining heap no larger than Martin’s fist.  Foy took hold of the thing and held it up, whereon the little heap stretched itself out marvellously, till it was as large indeed as the body garment of a man.

“Steel shirt!” exclaimed Martin, nodding his head in approval, and adding, “good wear for those who mix with Spaniards.”

“Yes,” said Lysbeth, “my father brought this from the East on one of his voyages.  I remember he told me that he paid for it its weight in gold and silver, and that even then it was sold to him only by the special favour of the king of that country.  The shirt, they said, was ancient, and of such work as cannot now be made.  It had been worn from father to son in one family for three hundred years, but no man that wore it ever died by body-cut or thrust, since sword or dagger cannot pierce that steel.  At least, son, this is the story, and, strangely enough, when I lost all the rest of my heritage—­” and she sighed, “this shirt was left to me, for it lay in its bag in the old oak chest, and none noticed it or thought it worth the taking.  So make the most of it, Foy; it is all that remains of your grandfather’s fortune, since this house is now your father’s.”

Beyond kissing his mother in thanks, Foy made no answer; he was too much engaged in examining the wonders of the shirt, which as a worker in metals he could well appreciate.  But Martin said again: 

“Better than money, much better than money.  God knew that and made them leave the mail.”

“I never saw the like of it,” broke in Foy; “look, it runs together like quicksilver and is light as leather.  See, too, it has stood sword and dagger stroke before to-day,” and holding it in a sunbeam they perceived in many directions faint lines and spots upon the links caused in past years by the cutting edge of swords and the points of daggers.  Yet never a one of those links was severed or broken.