“The Vrouw Andreas Jansen,” whispered Martin again, “flying from two of the guard who burned her husband.”

The torch was withdrawn and the casement shut with a snap.  In those days quiet burghers could not afford to be mixed up in street troubles, especially if soldiers had to do with them.  Once more the place was empty and quiet, except for the sound of running feet.

Opposite to the doorway the lady was overtaken.  “Oh! let me go,” she sobbed, “oh! let me go.  Is it not enough that you have killed my husband?  Why must I be hunted from my house thus?”

“Because you are so pretty, my dear,” answered one of the brutes, “also you are rich.  Catch hold of her, friend.  Lord! how she kicks!”

Foy made a motion as though to start out of the doorway, but Martin pressed him back with the flat of his hand, without apparent effort, and yet so strongly that the young man could not move.

“My business, masters,” he muttered; “you would make a noise,” and they heard his breath come thick.

Now, moving with curious stealthiness for one of so great a bulk, Martin was out of the porch.  By the summer starlight the watchers could see that, before they had caught sight of, or even heard, him, he gripped the two soldiers, small men, like most Spaniards, by the napes of their necks, one in either hand, and was grinding their faces together.  This, indeed, was evident, for his great shoulders worked visibly and their breastplates clicked as they touched.  But the men themselves made no sound at all.  Then Martin seemed to catch them round the middle, and behold! in another second the pair of them had gone headlong into the canal, which ran down the centre of the street.

“My God! he has killed them,” muttered Dirk.

“And a good job, too, father,” said Foy, “only I wish that I had shared in it.”

Martin’s great form loomed in the doorway.  “The Vrouw Jansen has fled away,” he said, “and the street is quite quiet now, so I think that we had better be moving before any see us, my masters.”

Some days later the bodies of these Spanish soldiers were found with their faces smashed flat.  It was suggested in explanation of this plight, that they had got drunk and while fighting together had fallen from the bridge on to the stonework of a pier.  This version of their end found a ready acceptance, as it consorted well with the reputations of the men.  So there was no search or inquiry.

“I had to finish the dogs,” Martin explained apologetically—­“may the Lord Jesus forgive me—­because I was afraid that they might know me again by my beard.”

“Alas! alas!” groaned Dirk, “what times are these.  Say nothing of this dreadful matter to your mother, son, or to Adrian either.”  But Foy nudged Martin in the ribs and muttered, “Well done, old fellow, well done!”