“Master,” counted Martin imperturbably, “why did you hit me in the pit of the stomach with your elbow?”

“To keep your tongue quiet.”

“And what is the name of my sword?”

“Silence.”

“Well, then, I dropped the sword ‘Silence’ for the same reason.  I hope it hasn’t hurt you much, but if it did I can’t help it.”

Foy wheeled round.  “What do you mean, Martin?”

“I mean,” answered the great man with energy, “that you have no right to tell what became of that paper which Mother Martha gave us.”

“Why not?  I have faith in my brother.”

“Very likely, master, but that isn’t the point.  We carry a great secret, and this secret is a trust, a dangerous trust; it would be wrong to lay its burden upon the shoulders of other folk.  What people don’t know they can’t tell, master.”

Foy still stared at him, half in question, half in anger, but Martin made no further reply in words.  Only he went through certain curious motions, motions as of a man winding slowly and laboriously at something like a pump wheel.  Foy’s lips turned pale.

“The rack?” he whispered.  Martin nodded, and answered beneath his breath,

“They may all of them be on it yet.  You let the man in the boat escape, and that man was the Spanish spy, Ramiro; I am sure of it.  If they don’t know they can’t tell, and though we know we shan’t tell; we shall die first, master.”

Now Foy trembled and leaned against the wall.  “What would betray us?” he asked.

“Who knows, master?  A woman’s torment, a man’s—­” and he put a strange meaning into his voice, “a man’s—­jealousy, or pride, or vengeance.  Oh! bridle your tongue and trust no one, no, not your father or mother, or sweetheart, or—­” and again that strange meaning came into Martin’s voice, “or brother.”

“Or you?” queried Foy, looking up.

“I am not sure.  Yes, I think you may trust me, though there is no knowing how the rack might change a man’s mind.”

“If all this be so,” said Foy, with a flush of sudden passion, “I have said too much already.”

“A great deal too much, master.  If I could have managed it I should have dropped the sword Silence on your toe long before.  But I couldn’t, for the Heer Adrian was watching me, and I had to wait till he closed his eyes, which he did to hear the better without seeming to listen.”

“You are unjust to Adrian, Martin, as you always have been, and I am angry with you.  Say, what is to be done now?”

“Now, master,” replied Martin cheerfully, “you must forget the teaching of the Pastor Arentz, and tell a lie.  You must take up your tale where you left it off, and say that we made a map of the hiding-place, but that—­I—­being a fool—­managed to drop it while we were lighting the fuses, so that it was blown away with the ship.  I will tell the same story.”

“Am I to say this to my father and mother?”