“Who could have told him?” asked Foy.  “It was only known to you and me and Martha, and we are not of the sort to tell.  What?  Give away the secret of Hendrik Brant’s treasure which he could die for and we were sworn to keep, to save our miserable lives?  Shame upon the thought!”

Martha heard, and looked at Elsa, a questioning look beneath which the poor girl turned a fiery red, though by good fortune in that light none could see her blushes.  Still, she must speak lest the suspicion should lie on others.

“I ought to have told you before,” she said in a low voice, “but I forgot—­I mean that I have always been so dreadfully ashamed.  It was I who betrayed the secret of the sword Silence.”

“You?  How did you know it?” asked Foy.

“Mother Martha told me on the night of the church burning after you escaped from Leyden.”

Martin grunted.  “One woman to trust another, and at her age too; what a fool!”

“Fool yourself, you thick-brained Frisian,” broke in Martha angrily, “where did you learn to teach your betters wisdom?  I told the Jufvrouw because I knew that we might all of us be swept away, and I thought it well that then she should know where to look for a key to the treasure.”

“A woman’s kind of reason,” answered Martin imperturbably, “and a bad one at that, for if we had been finished off she must have found it difficult to get hold of the sword.  But all this is done with.  The point is, why did the Jufvrouw tell Ramiro?”

“Because I am a coward,” answered Elsa with a sob.  “You know, Foy, I always was a coward, and I never shall be anything else.  I told him to save myself.”

“From what?”

“From being married.”

Adrian winced palpably, and Foy, noting it, could not resist pushing the point.

“From being married?  But I understand—­doubtless Adrian will explain the thing,” he added grimly—­“that you were forced through some ceremony.”

“Yes,” answered Elsa feebly, “I—­I—­was.  I tried to buy myself off by telling Ramiro the secret, which will show you all how mad I was with terror at the thought of this hateful marriage”—­here a groan burst from the lips of Adrian, and something like a chuckle from those of Red Martin.  “Oh!  I am so sorry,” went on Elsa in confusion; “I am sure that I did not wish to hurt Adrian’s feelings, especially after he has been so good to us.”

“Never mind Adrian’s feelings and his goodness, but go on with the story,” interrupted Foy.

“There isn’t much more to tell.  Ramiro swore before God that if I gave him the clue he would let me go, and then—­then, well, then, after I had fallen into the pit and disgraced myself, he said that it was not sufficient, and that the marriage must take place.”

At this point Foy and Martin laughed outright.  Yes, even there they laughed.

“Why, you silly child,” said Foy, “what else did you expect him to say?”