Then Foy did his own praying, and it was hearty enough, but we need scarcely stop to set down its substance.

Meanwhile the Spaniards had found a blacksmith, who was getting to work upon the gate, for they could see him through the open upper bars.

“Why don’t you shoot?” asked Foy.  “You might catch him with a bolt.”

“Because he is a poor Dutchman whom they have pressed for the job, while they stand upon one side.  We must wait till they break down the gate.  Also we must fight well when the time comes, Master Foy, for, see, folk are watching us, and they will expect it,” and he pointed upwards.

Foy looked.  The foundry courtyard was surrounded by tall gabled houses, and of these the windows and balconies were already crowded with spectators.  Word had gone round that the Inquisition had sent soldiers to seize one of the young Van Goorls and Red Martin—­that they were battering at the gates of the factory.  Therefore the citizens, some of them their own workmen, gathered there, for they did not think that Red Martin and Foy van Goorl would be taken easily.

The hammering at the gate went on, but it was very stout and would not give.

“Martin,” said Foy presently, “I am frightened.  I feel quite sick.  I know that I shall be no good to you when the pinch comes.”

“Now I am sure that you are a brave man,” answered Martin with a short laugh, “for otherwise you would never have owned that you feel afraid.  Of course you feel afraid, and so do I. It is the waiting that does it; but when once the first blow has been struck, why, you will be as happy as a priest.  Look you, master.  So soon as they begin to rush the ladder, do you get behind me, close behind, for I shall want all the room to sweep with my sword, and if we stand side by side we shall only hinder each other, while with a pike you can thrust past me, and be ready to deal with any who win through.”

“You mean that you want to shelter me with your big carcase,” answered Foy.  “But you are captain here.  At least I will do my best,” and putting his arms about the great man’s middle, he hugged him affectionately.

“Look! look!” cried Martin.  “The gate is down.  Now, first shot to you,” and he stepped to one side.

As he spoke the oaken doors burst open and the Spanish soldiers began to stream through them.  Suddenly Foy’s nerve returned to him and he grew steady as a rock.  Lifting his crossbow he aimed and pulled the trigger.  The string twanged, the quarrel rushed forth with a whistling sound, and the first soldier, pierced through breastplate and through breast, sprang into the air and fell forward.  Foy stepped to one side to string his bow.

“Good shot,” said Martin taking his place, while from the spectators in the windows went up a sudden shout.  Martin fired and another man fell.  Then Foy fired again and missed, but Martin’s next bolt struck the last soldier through the arm and pinned him to the timber of the broken gate.  After this they could shoot no more, for the Spaniards were beneath them.