“Do not thank me at all, gracious lady,” he replied, making his lowest bow. “To put to flight two robber rogues and a woman was no great feat, although I had but this staff for weapon,” he added, perhaps with a view to impressing upon the maiden’s mind that her assailants had been armed while he, the deliverer, was not. “Ah!” she answered, “I daresay that a brave knight like you thinks nothing of fighting several men at once, but when that wretch with the big hands and the flat face caught hold of me I nearly died of fright. At the best of times I am a dreadful coward, and—no, I thank you, Señor, I can stand now and alone. See, here comes the Heer van Broekhoven under whose escort I am travelling, and look, he is bleeding. Oh! worthy friend, are you hurt?” “Not much, Elsa,” gasped the Heer, for he was still breathless with fright and exhaustion, “but that ruffian—may the hangman have him—gave me a dig in the shoulder with his knife as he rose to run. However,” he added with satisfaction, “he got nothing from me, for I am an old traveller, and he never thought to look in my hat.” “I wonder why they attacked us,” said Elsa. The Heer van Broekhoven rubbed his head thoughtfully. “To rob us, I suppose, for I heard the woman say, ‘Here they are; look for the letter on the girl, Butcher.’” As he spoke Elsa’s face turned grave, and Adrian saw her glance at the animal she had been riding and slip her arm through its rein. “Worthy sir,” went on Van Broekhoven, “tell us whom we have to thank.” “I am Adrian, called Van Goorl,” Adrian replied with dignity. “Van Goorl!” said the Heer. “Well, this is strange; Providence could not have arranged it better. Listen, wife,” he went on, addressing the stout lady, who all this while had sat still upon the horse, so alarmed and bewildered that she could not speak, “here is a son of Dirk van Goorl, to whom we are charged to deliver Elsa.” “Indeed,” answered the good woman, recovering herself somewhat, “I thought from the look of him that he was a Spanish nobleman. But whoever he is I am sure that we are all very much obliged to him, and if he could show us the way out of this dreadful wood, which doubtless is full of robbers, to the house of our kinsfolk, the Broekhovens of Leyden, I should be still more grateful.” “Madam, you have only to accept my escort, and I assure you that you need fear no more robbers. Might I in turn ask this lady’s name?” “Certainly, young sir, she is Elsa Brant, the only child of Hendrik Brant, the famous goldsmith of The Hague, but doubtless now that you know her name you know all that also, for she must be some kind of cousin to you. Husband, help Elsa on to her mule.”