"He lies in the military prison of the city awaiting his trial by court-martial!" replied the provost. Maisie turned her about and caught her husband by the braid of his coat. "Go you to him at once--you must! Tell him it is all our fault--we have been unhappy and to blame, Kate and I--ask him to forgive." And, being overwrought and strained, she put her head down on Will Gordon's breast and wept aloud. Kate went to her and took her hand gently. And to her Maisie instantly turned, setting her husband aside with a pathetic little gesture of renunciation, as something which has been proven untrustworthy. Then, still leaning on Kate's shoulder, she passed slowly from the room. As Kate McGhie opened the door she flashed one glance, quick with measureless anger and contempt, back upon the two men who stood gazing after her. Then she passed out. There was a long silence between the provost-marshal and his host after the women had disappeared. At last Barra broke in upon the awkward pause with a laugh of scorn which ended with something like a sigh. "Oh, women! women," he cried. "From what pits will ye not dig the clay to make you your gods!" "He had been our friend so long, and in such bitter passes and desperate ventures," said Will Gordon, excusingly, speaking of Wat in a hushed voice almost as one would speak of the dead. Barra shrugged his shoulders to intimate that the whole sex was utterly impossible of comprehension. "Nevertheless, you will give our poor cousin your best word and offices to-morrow?" Will Gordon went on, anxiously. "I shall see the prince in person," answered Barra, promptly, "and I shall make my endeavor to arrange that the prisoner shall not be tried by court-martial--so that nothing summary may take place, and no sentence be hastily or vindictively carried out." Will Gordon blanched at the word "summary," which in the severely disciplined army of the States-General had but one meaning. He conducted his guest to the door in silence. The moonlight was casting deep shadows in the high-gabled street of Zaandpoort and glittering on the pole-axes and muskets of the provost's guard who stood without, stamping their feet impatiently and waiting the appearance of their leader. "Till to-morrow, then!" said Will Gordon, as he parted. "Till to-morrow!" replied the provost-marshal, more heartily than he had yet spoken, giving him his hand. But as he walked down the street towards the camp he smiled a smile from under the thin, drooping mustache which showed his teeth. They glittered white in the moonlight like a dog's. CHAPTER XII THE PRISON OF AMERSFORT