Finding their wits again the guards started in pursuit, but a voice from among the passers-by cried out: 

“It is Martin, Red Martin, and Foy van Goorl, who escape from the Gevangenhuis,” and instantly a stone flew towards the soldiers.

Then, bearing in mind the fate of their comrades on the yesterday, those men scuttled back to the friendly shelter of the prison gate.  When at length Ramiro, growing weary of waiting, came out from an inner chamber beyond the court-room, where he had been writing, to find the Professor and the porter dead in the passage, and the yelling guard locked in his own torture-chamber, why, then those sentries declared that they had seen nothing at all of prisoners clothed or naked.

For a while he believed them, and mighty was the hunt from the clock-tower of the Gevangenhuis down to the lowest stone of its cellars, yes, and even in the waters of the moat.  But when the Governor found out the truth it went very ill with those soldiers, and still worse with the guard from whom Martin had escaped in the torture-room like an eel out of the hand of a fish-wife.  For by this time Ramiro’s temper was roused, and he began to think that he had done ill to return to Leyden.

But he had still a card to play.  In a certain room in the Gevangenhuis sat another victim.  Compared to the dreadful dens where Foy and Martin had been confined this was quite a pleasant chamber upon the first floor, being reserved, indeed, for political prisoners of rank, or officers captured upon the field who were held to ransom.  Thus it had a real window, secured, however, by a double set of iron bars, which overlooked the little inner courtyard and the gaol kitchen.  Also it was furnished after a fashion, and was more or less clean.  This prisoner was none other than Dirk van Goorl, who had been neatly captured as he returned towards his house after making certain arrangements for the flight of his family, and hurried away to the gaol.  On that morning Dirk also had been put upon his trial before the squeaky-voiced and agitated ex-tailor.  He also had been condemned to death, the method of his end, as in the case of Foy and Martin, being left in the hands of the Governor.  Then they led him back to his room, and shot the bolts upon him there.

Some hours later a man entered his cell, to the door of which he was escorted by soldiers, bringing him food and drink.  He was one of the cooks and, as it chanced, a talkative fellow.

“What passes in this prison, friend?” asked Dirk looking up, “that I see people running to and fro across the courtyard, and hear trampling and shouts in the passages?  Is the Prince of Orange coming, perchance, to set all of us poor prisoners free?” and he smiled sadly.

“Umph!” grunted the man, “we have prisoners here who set themselves free without waiting for any Prince of Orange.  Magicians they must be—­magicians and nothing less.”

Dirk’s interest was excited.  Putting his hand into his pocket he drew out a gold piece, which he gave to the man.