“I wish you to reason with your husband, and to persuade him to cease from his obstinacy, and to surrender to me the secret of the hiding-place of Brant’s hoard. In that event, so soon as I have proved the truth of what he tells me, I undertake that he shall be set at liberty unharmed, and that, meanwhile, he shall be well treated.” “And if I will not, or he will not, or cannot?” “Then I have told you the alternative, and to show you that I am not joking, I will now write and sign the order. Then, if you decline this mission, or if it is fruitless, I will hand it to the officer before your eyes—and within the next ten days or so let you know the results, or witness them if you wish.” “I will go,” she said, “but I must see him alone.” “It is unusual,” he answered, “but provided you satisfy me that you carry no weapon, I do not know that I need object.” So, when Montalvo had written his order and scattered dust on it from the pounce-box, for he was a man of neat and methodical habits, he himself with every possible courtesy conducted Lysbeth to her husband’s prison. Having ushered her into it, with a cheerful “Friend van Goorl, I bring you a visitor,” he locked the door upon them, and patiently waited outside. It matters not what passed within. Whether Lysbeth told her husband of her dread yet sacred purpose, or did not tell him; whether he ever learned of the perfidy of Adrian, or did not learn it; what were their parting words—their parting prayers, all these things matter not; indeed, the last are too holy to be written. Let us bow our heads and pass them by in silence, and let the reader imagine them as he will. Growing impatient at length, Montalvo unlocked the prison door and opened it, to discover Lysbeth and her husband kneeling side by side in the centre of the room like the figures on some ancient marble monument. They heard him and rose. Then Dirk folded his wife in his arms in a long, last embrace, and, loosing her, held one hand above her head in blessing, as with the other he pointed to the door. So infinitely pathetic was this dumb show of farewell, for no word passed between them while he was present, that not only his barbed gibes, but the questions that he meant to ask, died upon the lips of Montalvo. Try as he might he could not speak them here. “Come,” he said, and Lysbeth passed out. At the door she turned to look, and there, in the centre of the room, still stood her husband, tears streaming from his eyes, down a face radiant with an unearthly smile, and his right hand lifted towards the heavens. And so she left him. Presently Montalvo and Lysbeth were together again in the little room. “I fear,” he said, “from what I saw just now, that your mission has failed.” “It has failed,” she answered in such a voice as might be dragged by an evil magic from the lips of a corpse. “He does not know the secret you seek, and, therefore, he cannot tell it.”