“It fits the man,” muttered Montalvo, “for few else could wield such a blade.  Go hang it in the doorway, it may be wanted in evidence,” but to himself he thought, “Bad luck again, the luck that follows me whenever I pit myself against Lysbeth van Hout.”  Then he gave an order, and the two prisoners were taken away up some narrow stairs.

At the top of the first flight was a solid door through which they passed, to find themselves in a large and darksome place.  Down the centre of this place ran a passage.  On either side of the passage, dimly lighted by high iron-barred windows, were cages built of massive oaken bars, and measuring each of them eight or ten feet square, very dens such as might have served for wild beasts, but filled with human beings charged with offences against the doctrines of the Church.  Those who chance to have seen the prison of the Inquisition at The Hague as it still stands to-day, will know what they were like.

Into one of these dreadful holes they were thrust, Foy, wounded as he was, being thrown roughly upon a heap of dirty straw in the corner.  Then, having bolted and locked the door of their den, the soldiers left them.

As soon as his eyes grew accustomed to the light, Martin stared about him.  The conveniences of the dungeon were not many; indeed, being built above the level of the ground, it struck the imagination as even more terrible than any subterranean vault devoted to the same dreadful purpose.  By good fortune, however, in one corner of it stood an earthenware basin and a large jug of water.

“I will take the risk of its being poisoned,” thought Martin to himself, as lifting the jug he drank deep of it, for what between fighting, fire and fury there seemed to be no moisture left in him.  Then, his burning thirst satisfied at last, he went to where Foy lay unconscious and began to pour water, little by little, into his mouth, which, senseless as he was, he swallowed mechanically and presently groaned a little.  Next, as well as he could, Martin examined his comrade’s wounds, to find that what had made him insensible was a cut upon the right side of the head, which, had it not been for his steel-lined cap, must certainly have killed him, but as it was, beyond the shock and bruise, seemed in no way serious.

His second hurt was a deep wound in the left thigh, but being on the outside of the limb, although he bled much it had severed no artery.  Other injuries he had also upon the forearms and legs, also beneath the chain shirt his body was bruised with the blows of swords and daggers.  But none of these were dangerous.

Martin stripped him as tenderly as he might and washed his wounds.  Then he paused, for both of them were wearing garments of flannel, which is unsuitable for the dressing of hurts.

“You need linen,” said a woman’s voice, speaking from the next den.  “Wait awhile and I will give you my smock.”

“How can I take your garment, lady, whoever you may be,” answered Martin, “to bind about the limbs of a man even if he is wounded?”