“The times are rough, Jufvrouw Elsa. Who that breathes the air one morning can know what breath will pass his nostrils at the nightfall? The times are rough, and Death is king of them. The hoard of Hendrik Brant is not forgotten, nor those who have its key. Ramiro slipped through my hands to-night, and doubtless by now is far away from Leyden seeking the treasure.” “The treasure! Oh! that thrice accursed treasure!” broke in Elsa, shivering as though beneath an icy wind; “would that we were rid of it.” “That you cannot be until it is appointed, for is this not the heritage which your father died to save? Listen. Do you know, lady, where it lies hid?” and she dropped her voice to a whisper. Elsa shook her head, saying: “I neither know nor wish to know.” “Still it is best that you should be told, for we three who have the secret may be killed, every one of us—no, not the place, but where to seek a clue to the place.” Elsa looked at her questioningly, and Martha, leaning forward, whispered in her ear: “_It lies in the hilt of the Sword Silence_. If Red Martin should be taken or killed, seek out his sword and open the hilt. Do you understand?” Elsa nodded and answered, “But if aught happens to Martin the sword may be lost.” Martha shrugged her shoulders. “Then the treasure will be lost also, that is if I am gone. It is as God wills; but at least in name you are the heiress, and you should know where to find its secret, which may serve you or your country in good stead in time to come. I give you no paper, I tell you only where to seek a paper, and now I must be gone to reach the borders of the Mere by daybreak. Have you any message for your love, lady?” “I would write a word, if you can wait. They will bring you food.” “Good; write on and I will eat. Love for the young and meat for the old, and for both let God be thanked.” CHAPTER XXV THE RED MILL After a week’s experience of that delectable dwelling and its neighbourhood, Adrian began to grow weary of the Red Mill. Nine or ten Dutch miles to the nor’west of Haarlem is a place called Velsen, situated on the borders of the sand-dunes, to the south of what is known to-day as the North Sea Canal. In the times of which this page of history tells, however, the canal was represented by a great drainage dyke, and Velsen was but a deserted village. Indeed, hereabouts all the country was deserted, for some years before a Spanish force had passed through it, burning, slaying, laying waste, so that few were left to tend the windmills and repair the dyke. Holland is a country won from swamps and seas, and if the water is not pumped out of it, and the ditches are not cleaned, very quickly it relapses into primeval marsh; indeed, it is fortunate if the ocean, bursting through the feeble barriers reared by the industry of man, does not turn it into vast lagoons of salt water.