Elsa became aware that light was shining about her, also that somebody was kissing her upon the face and lips. A horrible doubt struck her that it might be Adrian, and she opened her eyes ever so little to look. No, no, how very strange, it was not Adrian, it was Foy! Well, doubtless this must be all part of her vision, and as in dream or out of it Foy had a perfect right to kiss her if he chose, she saw no reason to interfere. Now she seemed to hear a familiar voice, that of Red Martin, asking someone how long it would take them to make Haarlem with this wind, to which another voice answered, “About three-quarters of an hour.” It was very odd, and why did he say Haarlem and not Leyden? Next the second voice, which also seemed familiar, said: “Look out, Foy, she’s coming to herself.” Then someone poured wine down her throat, whereupon, unable to bear this bewilderment any longer, Elsa sat up and opened her eyes wide, to see before her Foy, and none other than Foy in the flesh. She gasped, and began to sink back again with joy and weakness, whereon he cast his arms about her and drew her to his breast. Then she remembered everything. “Oh! Foy, Foy,” she cried, “you must not kiss me.” “Why not?” he asked. “Because—because I am married.” Of a sudden his happy face became ghastly. “Married!” he stammered. “Who to?” “To—your brother, Adrian.” He stared at her in amazement, then asked slowly: “Did you run away from Leyden to marry him?” “How dare you ask such a question?” replied Elsa with a flash of spirit. “Perhaps, then, you would explain?” “What is there to explain? I thought that you knew. They dragged me away, and last night, just before the flood burst, I was gagged and married by force.” “Oh! Adrian, my friend,” groaned Foy, “wait till I catch you, my friend Adrian.” “To be just,” explained Elsa, “I don’t think Adrian wanted to marry me much, but he had to choose between marrying me himself or seeing his father Ramiro marry me.” “So he sacrificed himself—the good, kind-hearted man,” interrupted Foy, grinding his teeth. “Yes,” said Elsa. “And where is your self-denying—oh! I can’t say the word.” “I don’t know. I suppose that he and Ramiro escaped in the boat, or perhaps he was drowned.” “In which case you are a widow sooner than you could have expected,” said Foy more cheerfully, edging himself towards her. But Elsa moved a little away and Foy saw with a sinking of the heart that, however distasteful it might be to her, clearly she attached some weight to this marriage. “I do not know,” she answered, “how can I tell? I suppose that we shall hear sometime, and then, if he is still alive, I must set to work to get free of him. But, till then, Foy,” she added, warningly, “I suppose that I am his wife in law, although I will never speak to him again. Where are we going?”