“Dear Foy, my betrothed, I cannot come to you because of your mother’s sickness, for I am sure that it would be your wish, as it is my desire and duty, that I should stay to nurse her. Soon, however, I hope that you will be able to come to her and me. Yet, in these dreadful times who can tell what may happen? Therefore, Foy, whatever chances, I am sure you will remember that in life or in death I am yours only—yes, to you, dead or living, you dead and I living, or you living and I dead, while or wherever I have sense or memory, I will be true; through life, through death, through whatever may lie beyond our deaths, I will be true as woman may be to man. So, dear Foy, for this present fare you well until we meet again in the days to come, or after all earthly days are done with for you and me. My love be with you, the blessing of God be with you, and when you lie down at night and when you wake at morn, think of me and put up a prayer for me as your true lover Elsa does for you. Martha waits. Most loved, most dear, most desired, fare you well.” Here was no hint of any journey, so if such had been taken it must be without Elsa’s own consent. “Martin, what do you make of it?” asked Foy, staring at him with anxious, hollow eyes. “Ramiro—Adrian—stolen away—” answered Martin. “Why do you say that?” “Hague Simon was seen hanging about outside the town yesterday, and there was a strange boat upon the river. Last night the Jufvrouw went through the Morsch poort. The rest you can guess.” “Why would they take her?” asked Foy hoarsely. “Who can tell?” said Martin shrugging his great shoulders. “Yet I see two reasons. Hendrik Brant’s wealth is supposed to be hers when it can be found; therefore, being a thief, Ramiro would want her. Adrian is in love with her; therefore, being a man, of course he would want her. These seem enough, the pair being what they are.” “When I find them I will kill them both,” said Foy, grinding his teeth. “Of course, so will I, but first we have got to find them—and her, which is the same thing.” “How, Martin, how?” “I don’t know.” “Can’t you think, man?” “I am trying to, master; it’s you who don’t think. You talk too much. Be silent a while.” “Well,” asked Foy thirty seconds later, “have you finished thinking?” “No, master, it’s no use, there is nothing to think about. We must leave this and go back to Martha. If anyone can track her out she can. Here we can learn no more.” So they returned to the Haarlemer Meer and told Martha their sad tale. “Bide here a day or two and be patient,” she said; “I will go out and search.” “Never,” answered Foy, “we will come with you.” “If you choose, but it will make matters more difficult. Martin, get ready the big boat.”