At last Elsa ceased outworn, and, standing still there upon the river bank she wrung her hands and wept.  Till now Foy had said nothing, for his good spirits and cheerful readiness seemed to have forsaken him.  Even now he said nothing.  All he did was to put his arms about this sweet maid’s waist, and, drawing her to him, to kiss her upon brow and eyes and lips.  She did not resist; it never seemed to occur to her to show resentment; indeed, she let her head sink upon his shoulder like the head of a little child, and there sobbed herself to silence.  At last she lifted her face and asked very simply: 

“What do you want with me, Foy van Goorl?”

“What?” he repeated; “why I want to be your husband.”

“Is this a time for marrying and giving in marriage?” she asked again, but almost as though she were speaking to herself.

“I don’t know that it is,” he replied, “but it seems the only thing to do, and in such days two are better than one.”

She drew away and looked at him, shaking her head sadly.  “My father,” she began——­

“Yes,” he interrupted brightening, “thank you for mentioning him, that reminds me.  He wished this, so I hope now that he is gone you will take the same view.”

“It is rather late to talk about that, isn’t it, Foy?” she stammered, looking at his shoulder and smoothing her ruffled hair with her small white hand.  “But what do you mean?”

So word for word, as nearly as he could remember it, he told her all that Hendrik Brant had said to him in the cellar at The Hague before they had entered upon the desperate adventure of their flight to the Haarlemer Meer.  “He wished it, you see,” he ended.

“My thought was always his thought, and—­Foy—­I wish it also.”

“Priceless things are not lightly won,” said he, quoting Brant’s words as though by some afterthought.

“There he must have been talking of the treasure, Foy,” she answered, her face lightening to a smile.

“Ay, of the treasure, sweet, the treasure of your dear heart.”

“A poor thing, Foy, but I think that—­it rings true.”

“It had need, Elsa, yet the best of coin may crack with rough usage.”

“Mine will wear till death, Foy.”

“I ask no more, Elsa.  When I am dead, spend it elsewhere; I shall find it again above where there is no marrying or giving in marriage.”

“There would be but small change left to spend, Foy, so look to your own gold and—­see that you do not alter its image and superscription, for metal will melt in the furnace, and each queen has her stamp.”

“Enough,” he broke in impatiently.  “Why do you talk of such things, and in these riddles which puzzle me?”

“Because, because, we are not married yet, and—­the words are not mine—­precious things are dearly won.  Perfect love and perfect peace cannot be bought with a few sweet words and kisses; they must be earned in trial and tribulation.”