“Take it and welcome,” said the unknown in sweet, low tones, “I want it no more; they are going to execute me to-night.”

“Execute you to-night?” muttered Martin.

“Yes,” replied the voice, “in the court-room or one of the cellars, I believe, as they dare not do it outside because of the people.  By beheading—­am I not fortunate?  Only by beheading.”

“Oh!  God, where art Thou?” groaned Martin.

“Don’t be sorry for me,” answered the voice, “I am very glad.  There were three of us, my father, my sister, and I, and—­you can guess—­well, I wish to join them.  Also it is better to die than to go through what I have suffered again.  But here is the garment.  I fear that it is stained about the neck, but it will serve if you tear it into strips,” and a trembling, delicate hand, which held the linen, was thrust between the oaken bars.

Even in that light, however, Martin saw that the wrist was cut and swollen.  He saw it, and because of that tender, merciful hand he registered an oath about priests and Spaniards, which, as it chanced, he lived to keep very thoroughly.  Also, he paused awhile wondering whether if all this was of any good, wondering if it would not be best to let Foy die at once, or even to kill him.

“What are you thinking about, sir?” asked the lady on the other side of the bars.

“I am thinking,” answered Martin, “that perhaps my young master here would be better dead, and that I am a fool to stop the bleeding.”

“No, no,” said the sweet voice, “do your utmost and leave the rest to God.  It pleases God that I should die, which matters little as I am but a weak girl; it may please Him that this young man shall live to be of service to his country and his faith.  I say, bind up his wounds, good sir.”

“Perhaps you are right,” answered Martin.  “Who knows, there’s a key to every lock, if only it can be found.”  Then he set to work upon Foy’s wounds, binding them round with strips of the girl’s garment dipped in water, and when he had done the best he could he clothed him again, even to the chain shirt.

“Are you not hurt yourself?” asked the voice presently.

“A little, nothing to speak of; a few cuts and bruises, that’s all; this bull’s hide turned their swords.”

“Tell me whom you have been fighting,” she said.

So, to while away the time while Foy still lay senseless, Martin told her the story of the attack upon the shot tower, of how they had driven the Spaniards down the ladder, of how they had drenched them with molten lead, and of their last stand in the courtyard when they were forced from the burning building.

“Oh! what a fearful fight—­two against so many,” said the voice with a ring of admiration in it.

“Yes,” answered Martin, “it was a good fight—­the hottest that ever I was in.  For myself I don’t much care, for they’ve paid a price for my carcase.  I didn’t tell you, did I, that the mob set on them as they haled us here and pulled four wounded men and those who carried them to bits?  Oh! yes, they have paid a price, a very good price for a Frisian boor and a Leyden burgher.”