“Then when they come out of his hand, you are at liberty to cut off mine,” answered Foy hotly. “I have been brought up with Adrian, and I know what he is; he is vain and pompous, and every time he looks at you and me he thanks God that he was not made like that. Also he has failings and vices, and he is lazy, being too fine a gentleman to work like a common Flemish burgher, and all the rest of it. But, father, he has a good heart, and if any man outside this house were to tell me that Adrian is capable of playing the traitor and bringing his own family to the scaffold, well, I would make him swallow his words, or try to, that is all. As regards what he said about my mother’s first marriage”—and Foy hung his head—“of course it is a subject on which I have no right to talk, but, father, speaking as one man to another—he _is_ sadly placed and innocent, whatever others may have been, and I don’t wonder that he feels sore about the story.” As he spoke the door opened and Lysbeth entered. “How goes it with Adrian, wife?” Dirk asked hastily. “Better, husband, thank God, though the doctor stays with him for this night. He has lost much blood, and at the best must lie long abed; above all none must cross his mood or use him roughly,” and she looked at her husband with meaning. “Peace, wife,” Dirk answered with irritation. “Foy here has just read me one lecture upon my dealings with your son, and I am in no mood to listen to another. I served the man as he deserved, neither less nor more, and if he chose to go mad and vomit blood, why it is no fault of mine. You should have brought him up to a soberer habit.” “Adrian is not as other men are, and ought not to be measured by the same rule,” said Lysbeth, almost repeating Foy’s words. “So I have been told before, wife, though I, who have but one standard of right and wrong, find the saying hard. But so be it. Doubtless the rule for Adrian is that which should be used to measure angels—or Spaniards, and not one suited to us poor Hollanders who do our work, pay our debts, and don’t draw knives on unarmed men!” “Have you read the letter from your cousin Brant?” asked Lysbeth, changing the subject. “No,” answered Dirk, “what with daggers, swoonings, and scoldings it slipped my mind,” and drawing the paper from his tunic he cut the silk and broke the seals. “I had forgotten,” he went on, looking at the sheets of words interspersed with meaningless figures; “it is in our private cypher, as Elsa said, or at least most of it is. Get the key from my desk, son, and let us set to work, for our task is likely to be long.”