“Come, come, son,” said Dirk.  “Martha, who knows every island on the great lake, must remember the spot.”

“Oh! no, she doesn’t,” answered Foy.  “The truth is that she didn’t come with us when we buried the barrels.  She stopped to watch the Spanish ship, and just told us to land on the first island we came to and dig a hole, which we did, making a map of the place before we left, the same that Martin dropped.”

All this clumsy falsehood Foy uttered with a wooden face and in a voice which would not have convinced a three-year-old infant, priding himself the while upon his extraordinary cleverness.

“Martin,” asked Dirk, suspiciously, “is this true?”

“Absolutely true, master,” replied Martin; “it is wonderful how well he remembers.”

“Son,” said Dirk, turning white with suppressed anger, “you have always been a good lad, and now you have shown yourself a brave one, but I pray God that I may not be forced to add that you are false-tongued.  Do you not see that this looks black?  The treasure which you have hidden is the greatest in all the Netherlands.  Will not folk say, it is not wonderful that you should have forgotten its secret until—­it suits you to remember?”

Foy took a step forward, his face crimson with indignation, but the heavy hand of Martin fell upon his shoulder and dragged him back as though he were but a little child.

“I think, Master Foy,” he said, fixing his eyes upon Lysbeth, “that your lady mother wishes to say something.”

“You are right, Martin; I do.  Do you not think, husband, that in these days of ours a man might have other reasons for hiding the truth than a desire to enrich himself by theft?”

“What do you mean, wife?” asked Dirk.  “Foy here says that he has buried this great hoard with Martin, but that he and Martin do not know where they buried it, and have lost the map they made.  Whatever may be the exact wording of the will, that hoard belongs to my cousin here, subject to certain trusts which have not yet arisen, and may never arise, and I am her guardian while Hendrik Brant lives and his executor when he dies.  Therefore, legally, it belongs to me also.  By what right, then, do my son and my servant hide the truth from me, if, indeed, they are hiding the truth?  Say what you have to say straight out, for I am a plain man and cannot read riddles.”

“Then I will say it, husband, though it is but my guess, for I have had no words with Foy or Martin, and if I am wrong they can correct me.  I know their faces, and I think with you that they are not speaking the truth.  I think that they do not wish us to know it—­not that they may keep the secret of this treasure for themselves, but because such a secret might well bring those who know of it to the torment and the stake.  Is it not so, my son?”

“Mother,” answered Foy, almost in a whisper, “it is so.  The paper is not lost, but do not seek to learn its hiding-place, for there are wolves who would tear your bodies limb from limb to get the knowledge out of you; yes, even Elsa’s, even Elsa’s.  If the trial must come let it fall on me and Martin, who are fitter to bear it.  Oh! father, surely you know that, whatever we may be, neither of us is a thief.”