As he passed the Rood Adrian looked up, and there, above the broken carvings and the shattered statue of the Virgin, hung the calm face of the Saviour crowned with thorns.  There, too, not far from it, looking small and infinitely piteous at that great height, and revolving slowly in the sharp draught from the broken windows, hung another dead face, the horrid face of the Abbe Dominic, lately the envied, prosperous dignitary and pluralist, who not four hours since had baptised him into the bosom of the Church, and who now himself had been born again into the bosom of whatever world awaited him beyond the Gates.  It terrified Adrian; no ghost could have frightened him more, but he set his teeth and staggered on, guided by the light gleaming faintly on the sword of Ramiro—­to whatever haven that sword should lead him.

Before dawn broke it had led him out of Leyden.

It was after ten o’clock that night when a woman, wrapped in a rough frieze coat, knocked at the door of the house in the Bree Straat and asked for the Vrouw van Goorl.

“My mistress lies between life and death with the plague,” answered the servant.  “Get you gone from this pest-house, whoever you are.”

“I do not fear the plague,” said the visitor.  “Is the Jufvrouw Elsa Brant still up?  Then tell her that Martha, called the Mare, would speak with her.”

“She can see none at such an hour,” answered the servant.

“Tell her I come from Foy van Goorl.”

“Enter,” said the servant wondering, and shut the door behind her.

A minute later Elsa, pale-faced, worn, but still beautiful, rushed into the room, gasping, “What news?  Does he live?  Is he well?”

“He lives, lady, but he is not well, for the wound in his thigh has festered and he cannot walk, or even stand.  Nay, have no fear, time and clean dressing will heal him, and he lies in a safe place.”

In the rapture of her relief Elsa seized the woman’s hand, and would have kissed it.

“Touch it not, it is bloodstained,” said Martha, drawing her hand away.

“Blood?  Whose blood is on it?” asked Elsa, shrinking back.

“Whose blood?” answered Martha with a hollow laugh; “why that of many a Spanish man.  Where, think you, lady, that the Mare gallops of nights?  Ask it of the Spaniards who travel by the Haarlemer Meer.  Aye, and now Red Martin is with me and we run together, taking our tithe where we can gather it.”

“Oh! tell me no more,” said Elsa.  “From day to day it is ever the same tale, a tale of death.  Nay, I know your wrongs have driven you mad, but that a woman should slay——­”