“And if people should try to interfere with us, I understand that we must fight?” “Of course.” “And if in the fighting we chance to kill anybody I shall not be reproached and called a murderer by the pastor or others?” “I think not,” replied Dirk. “And if anything should happen to my young master here, his blood will not be laid upon my head?” Lysbeth groaned. Then she stood up and spoke. “Martin, why do you ask such foolish questions? Your peril my son must share, and if harm should come to him as may chance, we shall know well that it is no fault of yours. You are not a coward or a traitor, Martin.” “Well, I think not, mistress, at least not often; but you see here are two duties: the first, to get this money through, the second, to protect the Heer Foy. I wish to know which of these is the more important.” It was Dirk who answered. “You go to carry out the wishes of my cousin Brant; they must be attended to before anything else.” “Very good,” replied Martin; “you quite understand, Heer Foy?” “Oh! perfectly,” replied that young man, grinning. “Then go to bed for an hour or two, as you may have to keep awake to-morrow night; I will call you at dawn. Your servant, master and mistress, I hope to report myself to you within sixty hours, but if I do not come within eighty, or let us say a hundred, it may be well to make inquiries,” and he shuffled back to his den. Youth sleeps well whatever may be behind or before it, and it was not until Martin had called to him thrice next morning that Foy opened his eyes in the grey light, and, remembering, sprang from his bed. “There’s no hurry,” said Martin, “but it will be as well to get out of Leyden before many people are about.” As he spoke Lysbeth entered the room fully dressed, for she had not slept that night, carrying in her hand a little leathern bag. “How is Adrian, mother?” asked Foy, as she stooped down to kiss him. “He sleeps, and the doctor, who is still with him, says that he does well,” she answered. “But see here, Foy, you are about to start upon your first adventure, and this is my present to you—this and my blessing.” Then she untied the neck of the bag and poured from it something that lay upon the table in a shining heap no larger than Martin’s fist. Foy took hold of the thing and held it up, whereon the little heap stretched itself out marvellously, till it was as large indeed as the body garment of a man. “Steel shirt!” exclaimed Martin, nodding his head in approval, and adding, “good wear for those who mix with Spaniards.”