At length, when men, and, for the matter of that, women, too, had well eaten, and the beautiful tall Flemish glasses not for the first time were replenished with the best Rhenish or Spanish wines, Montalvo, taking advantage of a pause in the conversation, rose and said that he wished to claim the privilege of a stranger among them and propose a toast, namely, the health of his late adversary, Pieter van de Werff.

At this the audience applauded, for they were all very proud of the young man’s success, and some of them had won money over him.  Still more did they applaud, being great judges of culinary matters, when the Spaniard began his speech by an elegant tribute to the surpassing excellence of the supper.  Rarely, he assured them, and especially did he assure the honourable widow Van Ziel (who blushed all over with pleasure at his compliments, and fanned herself with such vigour that she upset Dirk’s wine over his new tunic, cut in the Brussels style), the fame of whose skill in such matters had travelled so far as The Hague, for he had heard of it there himself—­rarely even in the Courts of Kings and Emperors, or at the tables of Popes and Archbishops, had he eaten food so exquisitely cooked, or drunk wines of a better vintage.

Then, passing on to the subject of his speech, Van de Werff, he toasted him and his horse and his little sister and his sledge, in really well-chosen and appropriate terms, not by any means overdoing it, for he confessed frankly that his defeat was a bitter disappointment to him, especially as every solder in the camp had expected him to win and—­he was afraid—­backed him for more than they could afford.  Also, incidentally, so that every one might be well acquainted with it, he retold the story of the girl with the red cloak.  Next, suddenly dropping his voice and adopting a quieter manner, he addressed himself to the Aunt Clara and the “well-beloved Heer Dirk,” saying that he owed them both an apology, which he must take this opportunity to make, for having detained the lady at his right during so unreasonable a time that afternoon.  When, however, they had heard the facts they would, he was sure, blame him no longer, especially if he told them that this breach of good manners had been the means of saving a human life.

Immediately after the race, he explained, one of his sergeants had found him out to tell him that a woman, suspected of certain crimes against life and property and believed to be a notorious escaped witch or heretic, had been captured, asking for reasons which he need not trouble them with, that he would deal with the case at once.  This woman also, so said the man, had been heard that every afternoon to make use of the most horrible, the most traitorous and blaspheming language to a lady of Leyden, the Jufvrouw Lysbeth van Hout, indeed; as was deposed by a certain spy named Black Meg, who had overheard the conversation.