“Not much dignity about that fellow,” he said, addressing Martin and Foy in a cheerful voice; “quite different from the kind of thing you expected, I daresay.  No hooded Dominican priests, no clerks taking notes, no solemnities, nothing but a little red-faced wretch, perspiring with terror lest the mob outside should catch him, as for my part I hope they may.  Well, gentlemen, what can you expect, seeing that, to my knowledge, the man is a bankrupt tailor of Antwerp?  However, it is the substance we have to deal with, not the shadow, and that’s real enough, for his signature on a death warrant is as good as that of the Pope, or his gracious Majesty King Philip, or, for the matter of that, of Alva himself.  Therefore, you are—­dead men.”

“As you would have been had I not been fool enough to neglect Martin’s advice out in the Haarlemer Meer and let you escape,” answered Foy.

“Precisely, my young friend, but you see my guardian angel was too many for you, and you did neglect that excellent counsel.  But, as it happens, it is just about the Haarlemer Meer that I want to have a word with you.”

Foy and Martin looked at each other, for now they understood exactly why they were there, and Ramiro, watching them out of the corners of his eyes, went on in a low voice: 

“Let us drop this and come to business.  You hid it, and you know where it is, and I am in need of a competence for my old age.  Now, I am not a cruel man; I wish to put no one to pain or death; moreover, I tell you frankly, I admire both of you very much.  The escape with the treasure on board of your boat Swallow, and the blowing up, were both exceedingly well managed, with but one mistake which you, young sir, have pointed out,” and he bowed and smiled.  “The fight that you made yesterday, too, was splendid, and I have entered the details of it in my own private diary, because they ought not to be forgotten.”

Now it was Foy’s turn to bow, while even on Martin’s grim and impassive countenance flickered a faint smile.

“Naturally,” went on Ramiro, “I wish to save such men, I wish you to go hence quite free and unharmed,” and he paused.

“How can we after we have been condemned to death?” asked Foy.

“Well, it does not seem so difficult.  My friend, the tailor—­I mean the Inquisitor—­who, for all his soft words, is a cruel man indeed, was in a hurry to be gone, and—­he signed a blank warrant, always an incautious thing to do.  Well, a judge can acquit as well as condemn, and this one—­is no exception.  What is there to prevent me filling this paper in with an order for your release?”

“And what is there to show us that you would release us after all?” asked Foy.

“Upon the honour of a gentleman,” answered Ramiro laying his hand on his heart.  “Tell me what I want to know, give me a week to make certain necessary arrangements, and so soon as I am back you shall both of you be freed.”