“I am the pilot,” said the voice, “and this boat by the rig of her and her signals should be the Swallow of The Hague, but why must I crawl aboard of her across the corpse of a dead man?”

“Come into the cabin, pilot, and we will tell you,” said Foy.

“Very well, Mynheer.”  So Foy led the way to the cabin, but Martin stopped behind a while.

“We have found our guide, so what is the use of the lamps?” he said to himself as he extinguished them all, except one which he brought with him into the cabin.  Foy was waiting for him by the door and they entered the place together.  At the end of it the light of the lamp showed them a strange figure clad in skins so shapeless and sack-like that it was impossible to say whether the form beneath were male or female.  The figure was bareheaded, and about the brow locks of grizzled hair hung in tufts.  The face, in which were set a pair of wandering grey eyes, was deep cut, tanned brown by exposure, scarred, and very ugly, with withered lips and projecting teeth.

“Good even to you, Dirk van Goorl’s son, and to you, Red Martin.  I am Mother Martha, she whom the Spaniards call the Mare and the Lake-witch.”

“Little need to tell us that, mother,” said Foy, “although it is true that many years have gone by since I set eyes on you.”

Martha smiled grimly as she answered, “Yes, many years.  Well, what have you fat Leyden burghers to do with a poor old night-hag, except of course in times of trouble?  Not that I blame you, for it is not well that you, or your parents either, should be known to traffic with such as I. Now, what is your business with me, for the signals show that you have business, and why does the corpse of Hendrik Brant’s foster-brother lie there in the stern?”

“Because, to be plain, we have Hendrik Brant’s treasure on board, mother, and for the rest look yonder—­” and he pointed to what his eye had just caught sight of two or three miles away, a faint light, too low and too red for a star, that could only come from a lantern hung at the masthead of a ship.

Martha nodded.  “Spaniards after you, poling through the gut against the wind.  Come on, there is no time to lose.  Bring your boat round, and we will tow the Swallow to where she will lie safe to-night.”

Five minutes later they were all three of them rowing the oar boat in which they had escaped from The Hague towards some unknown point in the darkness, slowly dragging after them the little ship Swallow.  As they went, Foy told Martha all the story of their mission and escape.

“I have heard of this treasure before,” she said, “all the Netherlands has heard of Brant’s hoard.  Also dead Hans there let me know that perhaps it might come this way, for in such matters he thought that I could be trusted,” and she smiled grimly.  “And now what would you do?”

“Fulfil our orders,” said Foy.  “Hide it if we can; if not, destroy it.”