“When I find them I will kill them both,” said Foy, grinding his teeth.

“Of course, so will I, but first we have got to find them—­and her, which is the same thing.”

“How, Martin, how?”

“I don’t know.”

“Can’t you think, man?”

“I am trying to, master; it’s you who don’t think.  You talk too much.  Be silent a while.”

“Well,” asked Foy thirty seconds later, “have you finished thinking?”

“No, master, it’s no use, there is nothing to think about.  We must leave this and go back to Martha.  If anyone can track her out she can.  Here we can learn no more.”

So they returned to the Haarlemer Meer and told Martha their sad tale.

“Bide here a day or two and be patient,” she said; “I will go out and search.”

“Never,” answered Foy, “we will come with you.”

“If you choose, but it will make matters more difficult.  Martin, get ready the big boat.”

Two nights had gone by, and it was an hour or more past noon on the third day, the day of Elsa’s forced marriage.  The snow had ceased falling and the rain had come instead, rain, pitiless, bitter and continual.  Hidden in a nook at the north end of the Haarlemer Meer and almost buried beneath bundles of reeds, partly as a protection from the weather and partly to escape the eyes of Spaniards, of whom companies were gathering from every direction to besiege Haarlem, lay the big boat.  In it were Red Martin and Foy van Goorl.  Mother Martha was not there for she had gone alone to an inn at a distance, to gather information if she could.  To hundreds of the boers in these parts she was a known and trusted friend, although many of them might not choose to recognise her openly, and from among them, unless, indeed, she had been taken right away to Flanders, or even to Spain, she hoped to gather tidings of Elsa’s whereabouts.

For two weary nights and days the Mare had been employed thus, but as yet without a shadow of success.  Foy and Martin sat in the boat staring at each other gloomily; indeed Foy’s face was piteous to see.

“What are you thinking of, master?” asked Martin presently.

“I am thinking,” he answered, “that even if we find her now it will be too late; whatever was to be done, murder or marriage, will be done.”

“Time to trouble about that when we have found her,” said Martin, for he knew not what else to say, and added, “listen, I hear footsteps.”

Foy drew apart two of the bundles of reeds and looked out into the driving rain.

“All right,” he said, “it is Martha and a man.”

Martin let his hand fall from the hilt of the sword Silence, for in those days hand and sword must be near together.  Another minute and Martha and her companion were in the boat.

“Who is this man?” asked Foy.

“He is a friend of mine named Marsh Jan.”

“Have you news?”

“Yes, at least Marsh Jan has.”