At length, when even the patient Ramiro was almost worn out by the young gentleman’s lengthy visits, the luck changed.  Elsa appeared one day at dinner, and with great adroitness Adrian, quite unseen of anyone, contrived to empty the phial into her goblet of water, which, as he rejoiced to see, she drank to the last drop.

But no opportunity such as he sought ensued, for Elsa, overcome, doubtless, by an unwonted rush of emotion, retired to battle it in her own chamber.  Since it was impossible to follow and propose to her there, Adrian, possessing his soul in such patience as he could command, sat in the sitting-room to await her return, for he knew that it was not her habit to go out until five o’clock.  As it happened, however, Elsa had other arrangements for the afternoon, since she had promised to accompany Lysbeth upon several visits to the wives of neighbours, and then to meet her cousin Foy at the factory and walk with him in the meadows beyond the town.

So while Adrian, lost in dreams, waited in the sitting-room Elsa and Lysbeth left the house by the side door.

They had paid three of their visits when their path chanced to lead them past the old town prison which was called the Gevangenhuis.  This place formed one of the gateways of the city, for it was built in the walls and opened on to the moat, water surrounding it on all sides.  In front of its massive door, that was guarded by two soldiers, a small crowd had gathered on the drawbridge and in the street beyond, apparently in expectation of somebody or something.  Lysbeth looked at the three-storied frowning building and shuddered, for it was here that heretics were put upon their trial, and here, too, many of them were done to death after the dreadful fashion of the day.

“Hasten,” she said to Elsa, as she pushed through the crowd, “for doubtless some horror passes here.”

“Have no fear,” answered an elderly and good-natured woman who overheard her, “we are only waiting to hear the new governor of the prison read his deed of appointment.”

As she spoke the doors were thrown open and a man—­he was a well-known executioner named Baptiste—­came out carrying a sword in one hand and a bunch of keys on a salver in the other.  After him followed the governor gallantly dressed and escorted by a company of soldiers and the officials of the prison.  Drawing a scroll from beneath his cloak he began to read it rapidly and in an almost inaudible voice.

It was his commission as governor of the prison signed by Alva himself, and set out in full his powers, which were considerable, his responsibilities which were small, and other matters, excepting only the sum of money that he had paid for the office, that, given certain conditions, was, as a matter of fact, sold to the highest bidder.  As may be guessed, this post of governor of a gaol in one of the large Netherland cities was lucrative enough to those who did not object to such a fashion of growing rich.  So lucrative was it, indeed, that the salary supposed to attach to the office was never paid; at least its occupant was expected to help himself to it out of heretical pockets.