“With pleasure. You see this girl is the heiress, is she not? and whether or no I find out the facts from you, sooner or later, in this way or that, she will doubtless discover where her heritage is hidden. Well, that fortune a husband would have the advantage of sharing. I myself labour at present under no matrimonial engagements, and am in a position to obtain an introduction—ah! my friend, are you beginning to see that there are more ways of killing a dog than by hanging him?” Weak and wounded as he was, Foy’s heart sank in him at the words of this man, this devil who had betrayed his mother with a mock marriage, and who was the father of Adrian. The idea of making the heiress his wife was one worthy of his evil ingenuity, and why should he not put it into practice? Elsa, of course, would rebel, but Alva’s officials in such days had means of overcoming any maidenly reluctance, or at least of forcing women to choose between death and degradation. Was it not common for them even to dissolve marriages in order to give heretics to new husbands who desired their wealth? There was no justice left in the land; human beings were the chattels and slaves of their oppressors. Oh God! what was there to do, except to trust in God? Why should they be tortured, murdered, married against their wills, for the sake of a miserable pile of pelf? Why not tell the truth and let the fellow take the money? He had measured up his man, and believed that he could drive a bargain with him. Ramiro wanted money, not lives. He was no fanatic; horrors gave him no pleasure; he cared nothing about his victims’ souls. As he had betrayed his mother, Lysbeth, for cash, so he would be willing to let them all go for cash. Why not make the exchange? Then distinct, formidable, overwhelming, the answer rose up in Foy’s mind. Because he had sworn to his father that nothing which could be imagined should induce him to reveal this secret and betray this trust. And not only to his father, to Hendrik Brant also, who already had given his own life to keep his treasure out of the hands of the Spaniards, believing that in some unforeseen way it would advantage his own land and countrymen. No, great as was the temptation, he must keep the letter of his bond and pay its dreadful price. So again Foy answered, “It is useless to try to bribe me, for I do not know where the money is.” “Very well, Heer Foy van Goorl, now we have a plain issue before us, but I will still try to protect you against yourself—the warrant shall remain blank for a little while.” Then he called aloud, “Sergeant, ask the Professor Baptiste to be so good as to step this way.” CHAPTER XXI HOW MARTIN TURNED COWARD The sergeant left the room and presently returned, followed by the Professor, a tall hang-dog looking rogue, clad in rusty black, with broad, horny hands, and nails bitten down to the quick.