While they ate the sun sank, and the wind blew so that scarcely could they make a knot an hour, shift the sail as they might. Then, as there was no sign of Mother Martha, or any other pilot, they hung out the four lamps upon the starboard side, and, with a flapping sail, drifted on gradually, till at length they reached the mouth of the great mere, an infinite waste of waters—deep in some places, shallow in others, and spotted everywhere with islets. Now the wind turned against them altogether, and, the darkness closing in, they were forced to drop anchor, fearing lest otherwise they should go ashore. One comfort they had, however: as yet nothing could be seen of their pursuers. Then, for the first time, their spirits failed them a little, and they stood together near the stern wondering what they should do. It was while they rested thus that suddenly a figure appeared before them as though it had risen from the deck of the ship. No sound of oars or footsteps had reached their ears, yet there, outlined against the dim sky, was the figure. “I think that friend Hans has come to life again,” said Martin with a slight quaver in his voice, for Martin was terribly afraid of ghosts. “And I think that a Spaniard has found us,” said Foy, drawing his knife. Then a hoarse voice spoke, saying, “Who are you that signal for a pilot on my waters?” “The question is—who are you?” answered Foy, “and be so good as to tell us quickly.” “I am the pilot,” said the voice, “and this boat by the rig of her and her signals should be the _Swallow_ of The Hague, but why must I crawl aboard of her across the corpse of a dead man?” “Come into the cabin, pilot, and we will tell you,” said Foy. “Very well, Mynheer.” So Foy led the way to the cabin, but Martin stopped behind a while. “We have found our guide, so what is the use of the lamps?” he said to himself as he extinguished them all, except one which he brought with him into the cabin. Foy was waiting for him by the door and they entered the place together. At the end of it the light of the lamp showed them a strange figure clad in skins so shapeless and sack-like that it was impossible to say whether the form beneath were male or female. The figure was bareheaded, and about the brow locks of grizzled hair hung in tufts. The face, in which were set a pair of wandering grey eyes, was deep cut, tanned brown by exposure, scarred, and very ugly, with withered lips and projecting teeth. “Good even to you, Dirk van Goorl’s son, and to you, Red Martin. I am Mother Martha, she whom the Spaniards call the Mare and the Lake-witch.” “Little need to tell us that, mother,” said Foy, “although it is true that many years have gone by since I set eyes on you.”