That the girl whom he loved so dearly, and whom he had so nearly lost, should be sitting before him safe and sound, ready to become his wife whensoever he might wish it, seemed to Foy also a thing too good to be true.  Too good to be true was it, moreover, that his brother, the wayward, passionate, weak, poetical-minded Adrian, made by nature to be the tool of others, and bear the burden of their evil doing, should have been dragged before it was over late, out of the net of the fowler, have repented of his sins and follies, and, at the risk of his own life, shown that he was still a man, no longer the base slave of passion and self-love.  For Foy always loved his brother, and knowing him better than any others knew him, had found it hard to believe that however black things might look against him, he was at heart a villain.

Thus he thought, and Elsa too had her thoughts, which may be guessed.  They were silent all of them, till of a sudden, Elsa seated in the stern-sheets, saw Adrian suddenly let fall his oar, throw his arms wide, and pitch forward against the back of Martin.  Yes, and in place of where he had sat appeared the dreadful countenance of Ramiro, stamped with a grin of hideous hate such as Satan might wear when souls escape him at the last.  Ramiro recovered and sitting up, for to his feet he could not rise because of the sword strap, in his hand a thin, deadly-looking knife.

“Habet!” he said with a short laugh, “habes, Weather-cock!” and he turned the knife against himself.

But Martin was on him, and in five more seconds he lay trussed like a fowl in the bottom of the boat.

“Shall I kill him?” said Martin to Foy, who with Elsa was bending over Adrian.

“No,” answered Foy grimly, “let him take his trial in Leyden.  Oh! what accursed fools were we not to search him!”

Ramiro’s face turned a shade more ghastly.

“It is your hour,” he said in a hoarse voice, “you have won, thanks to that dog of a son of mine, who, I trust, may linger long before he dies, as die he must.  Ah! well, this is what comes of breaking my oath to the Virgin and again lifting my hand against a woman.”  He looked at Elsa and shuddered, then went on:  “It is your hour, make an end of me at once.  I do not wish to appear thus before those boors.”

“Gag him,” said Foy to Martin, “lest our ears be poisoned,” and Martin obeyed with good will.  Then he flung him down, and there the man lay, his back supported by the kegs of treasure he had worked so hard and sinned so deeply to win, making, as he knew well, his last journey to death and to whatever may lie beyond that solemn gate.