“Be careful, Mynheer Foy,” said their host in warning, “for there are many strange characters about, men and women.  Oh! yes, this mere is full of pike, and fresh bait is snapped up sharply.”

“We will be wary,” replied Foy, with the cheerful air of a young man eager for excitement.  “Hague pike don’t like Leyden perch, you know; they stick in their throats.”

“I hope so, I hope so,” said the host, “still I pray you be careful.  You will remember where to find the horses if you want them; they are fed and I will keep them saddled.  Your arrival here is known, and for some reason this house is being watched.”

Foy nodded and they started out; Foy going first, and Red Martin, staring round him like a bewildered bumpkin, following at his heel, with his great sword, which was called Silence, girt about his middle, and hidden as much as possible beneath his jerkin.

“I wish you wouldn’t look so big, Martin,” Foy whispered over his shoulder; “everybody is staring at you and that red beard of yours, which glows like a kitchen fire.”

“I can’t help it, master,” said Martin, “my back aches with stooping as it is, and, as for the beard, well, God made it so.”

“At least you might dye it,” answered Foy; “if it were black you would be less like a beacon on a church tower.”

“Another day, master; it is a long business dyeing a beard like mine; I think it would be quicker to cut it off.”  Then he stopped, for they were in the Broad Street.

Here they found many people moving to and fro, but although the company were so numerous it was difficult to distinguish them, for no moon shone, and the place was lighted by lanterns set up on poles at long distances from each other.  Foy could see, however, that they were for the most part folk of bad character, disreputable women, soldiers of the garrison, half-drunk sailors from every country, and gliding in and out among them all, priests and other observers of events.  Before they had been long in the crowd a man stumbled against Foy rudely, at the same time telling him to get out of the path.  But although his blood leapt at the insult and his hand went to his sword hilt, Foy took no notice, for he understood at once that it was sought to involve him in a quarrel.  Next a woman accosted him, a gaily-dressed woman, but she had no bow upon her shoulder, so Foy merely shook his head and smiled.  For the rest of that walk, however, he was aware that this woman was watching him, and with her a man whose figure he could not distinguish, for he was wrapped in a black cloak.

Thrice did Foy, followed by Martin, thus promenade the right side of the Broad Street, till he was heartily weary of the game indeed, and began to wonder if his cousin Brant’s plans had not miscarried.

As he turned for the fourth time his doubts were answered, for he found himself face to face with a small woman who wore upon her shoulder a large red bow, and was followed by another woman, a buxom person dressed in a peasant’s cap.  The lady with the red bow, making pretence to stumble, precipitated herself with an affected scream right into his arms, and as he caught her, whispered, “Are you from Leyden, sweetheart?” “Yes.”  “Then treat me as I treat you, and follow always where I lead.  First make pretence to be rid of me.”