cloud.  Could it be that Adrian was not quite so bad after all?  That he was, in fact, the Adrian that he, Foy, had always believed him to be, vain, silly, passionate, exaggerated, born to be a tool and think himself the master, but beneath everything, well-meaning?  Who could say?  At the worst, too, was it not better that Elsa should become the wife of Adrian than that her life should cease there and then, and by her lover’s hand?

These things passed through his brain as the lightning passes through the sky.  In an instant his mind was made up and Foy flung down his sword at the feet of a soldier.  As he did so his eyes met the eyes of Adrian, and to his imagination they seemed to be full of thanks and promise.

They took them all; with gibes and blows the soldiers haled them away through the tumult and the agony of the fallen town and its doomed defenders.  Out of the rich sunlight they led them into a house that still stood not greatly harmed by the cannon-shot, but a little way from the shattered Ravelin and the gate which had been the scene of such fearful conflict—­a house that was the home of one of the wealthiest merchants in Haarlem.  Here Foy and Elsa were parted.  She struggled to his arms, whence they tore her and dragged her away up the stairs, but Martin, Martha and Foy were thrust into a dark cellar, locked in and left.

A while later the door of the cellar was unbarred and some hand, they could not see whose, passed through it water and food, good food such as they had not tasted for months; meat and bread and dried herrings, more than they could eat of them.

“Perhaps it is poisoned,” said Foy, smelling at it hungrily.

“What need to take the trouble to poison us?” answered Martin.  “Let us eat and drink, for to-morrow we die.”

So like starving animals they devoured the food with thankfulness and then they slept, yes, in the midst of all their misery and doubts they slept.

It seemed but a few minutes later—­in fact it was eight hours—­when the door opened again and there entered Adrian carrying a lantern in his hand.

“Foy, Martin,” he said, “get up and follow me if you would save your lives.”

Instantly they were wide awake.

“Follow you—­you?” stammered Foy in a choked voice.

“Yes,” Adrian answered quietly.  “Of course you may not escape, but if you stop here what chance have you?  Ramiro, my father, will be back presently and then——­”

“It is madness to trust ourselves to you,” interrupted Martin, and Adrian seemed to wince at the contempt in his voice.

“I knew that you would think that,” he answered humbly, “but what else is to be done?  I can pass you out of the city, I have made a boat ready for you to escape in, all at the risk of my own life; what more can I do?  Why do you hesitate?”

“Because we do not believe you,” said Foy; “besides, there is Elsa.  I will not go without Elsa.”