A stone flew through the air, then another and another, but at a word of command the soldiers faced about and the mob drew back, for they had no leader.  So it went on till they were within a hundred yards of the Gevangenhuis.

“Don’t let them be murdered,” cried the voice.  “A rescue! a rescue!” and with a roar the crowd fell upon the soldiers.  It was too late, for the Spaniards, trained to arms, closed up and fought their way through, taking their prisoners with them.  But they cost them dear, for the wounded men, and those who supported them, were cut off.  They were cut off, they were struck down.  In a minute they were dead, every one of them, and although they still held its fortresses and walls, from that hour the Spaniards lost their grip of Leyden, nor did they ever win it back again.  From that hour to this Leyden has been free.  Such were the first fruits of the fight of Foy and Martin against fearful odds.

The great doors of oak and iron of the Gevangenhuis clashed to behind the prisoners, the locks were shot, and the bars fell home, while outside raved the furious crowd.

The place was not large nor very strong, merely a drawbridge across the narrow arm of a moat, a gateway with a walled courtyard beyond, and over it a three-storied house built in the common Dutch fashion, but with straight barrel windows.  To the right, under the shadow of the archway, which, space being limited, was used as an armoury, and hung with weapons, lay the court-room where prisoners were tried, and to the left a vaulted place with no window, not unlike a large cellar in appearance.  This was the torture-chamber.  Beyond was the courtyard, and at the back of it rose the prison.  In this yard were waiting the new governor of the jail, Ramiro, and with him a little red-faced, pig-eyed man dressed in a rusty doublet.  He was the Inquisitor of the district, especially empowered as delegate of the Blood Council and under various edicts and laws to try and to butcher heretics.

The officer in command of the troops advanced to make his report.

“What is all that noise?” asked the Inquisitor in a frightened, squeaky voice.  “Is this city also in rebellion?”

“And where are the rest of you?” said Ramiro, scanning the thin files.

“Sir,” answered the officer saluting, “the rest of us are dead.  Some were killed by this red rogue and his companion, and the mob have the others.”

Then Ramiro began to curse and to swear, as well he might, for he knew that when this story reached headquarters, his credit with Alva and the Blood Council would be gone.

“Coward!” he yelled, shaking his fist in the face of the officer.  “Coward to lose a score or more of men in taking a brace of heretics.”

“Don’t blame me, sir,” answered the man sullenly, for the word stirred his bile, “blame the mob and this red devil’s steel, which went through us as though we were wet clay,” and he handed him the sword Silence.