Lysbeth staggered and fell back into her chair.

“How do you know?” she asked.

At the question Adrian’s head swam and his heart stood still.  Yet his lips found a lie.

“I overheard it,” he said; “the soldiers are attacking Foy and Martin in the factory, and I heard them say that they were coming here for him.”

Elsa moaned aloud, then she turned on him like a tiger, asking: 

“If so, why did you not stay to help them?”

“Because,” he answered with a touch of his old pomposity, “my first duty was towards my mother and you.”

“He is out of the house,” broke in Lysbeth in a low voice that was dreadful to hear.  “He is out of the house, I know not where.  Go, son, and search for him.  Swift!  Be swift!”

So Adrian went forth, not sorry to escape the presence of these tormented women.  Here and there he wandered to one haunt of Dirk’s after another, but without success, till at length a noise of tumult drew him, and he ran towards the sound.  Presently he was round the corner, and this was what he saw.

Advancing down the wide street leading to the Gevangenhuis came a body of Spanish soldiers, and in the centre of them were two figures whom it was easy for Adrian to recognise—­Red Martin and his brother Foy.  Martin, although his bull-hide jerkin was cut and slashed and his helmet had gone, seemed to be little hurt, for he was still upright and proud, walking along with his arms lashed behind him, while a Spanish officer held the point of a sword, his own sword Silence, near his throat ready to drive it home should he attempt to escape.  With Foy the case was different.  At first Adrian thought that he was dead, for they were carrying him upon a ladder.  Blood fell from his head and legs, while his doublet seemed literally to be rent to pieces with sword-cuts and dagger-thrusts; and in truth had it not been for the shirt of mail which he wore beneath, he must have been slain several times over.  But Foy was not dead, for as Adrian watched he saw his head turn upon the ladder and his hand rise up and fall again.

But this was not all, for behind appeared a cart drawn by a grey horse, and in it were the bodies of Spanish soldiers—­how many Adrian could not tell, but there they lay with their harness still on them.  After these again, in a long and melancholy procession, marched other Spanish soldiers, some of them sorely wounded, and, like Foy, carried upon doors or ladders, and others limping forward with the help of their comrades.  No wonder that Martin walked proudly to his doom, since behind him came the rich harvest of the sword Silence.  Also, there were other signs to see and hear, since about the cavalcade surged and roared a great mob of the citizens of Leyden.

“Bravo, Martin!  Well fought, Foy van Goorl!” they shouted, “We are proud of you!  We are proud of you!” Then from the back of the crowd someone cried, “Rescue them!” “Kill the Inquisition dogs!” “Tear the Spaniards to pieces!”