“There’s a girl,” said the sergeant in command of them, “who isn’t bad looking. Pull her out, men.” Some fellows stepped forward to do his bidding. Now Foy went mad. He did not kill Elsa as she had prayed him, he flew straight at the throat of the brute who had spoken, and next instant his sword was standing out a foot behind his neck. Then after him, with a kind of low cry, came Martin, plying the great blade Silence, and Martha after him with her long knife. It was all over in a minute, but before it was done there were five men down, three dead and two sore wounded. “A tithe and an offering!” muttered Martha as, bounding forward, she bent over the wounded men, and their comrades fled round the corner of the cathedral. There was a minute’s pause. The bright summer sunlight shone upon the faces and armour of the dead Spaniards, upon the naked sword of Foy, who stood over Elsa crouched to the ground in a corner of the niche, her face hidden in her hands, upon the terrible blue eyes of Martin alight with a dreadful fire of rage. Then there came the sound of marching men, and a company of Spaniards appeared before them, and at their head—Ramiro and Adrian called van Goorl. “There they are, captain,” said a soldier, one of those who had fled; “shall we shoot them?” Ramiro looked, carelessly enough at first, then again a long, scrutinising look. So he had caught them at last! Months ago he had learned that Elsa had been rescued from the Red Mill by Foy and Martin, and now, after much seeking, the birds were in his net. “No,” he said, “I think not. Such desperate characters must be reserved for separate trial.” “Where can they be kept, captain?” asked the sergeant sulkily. “I observed, friend, that the house which my son and I have taken as our quarters has excellent cellars; they can be imprisoned there for the present—that is, except the young lady, whom the Señor Adrian will look after. As it chances, she is his wife.” At this the soldiers laughed openly. “I repeat—his wife, for whom he has been searching these many months,” said Ramiro, “and, therefore, to be respected. Do you understand, men?” Apparently they did understand, at least no one made any answer. Their captain, as they had found, was not a man who loved argument. “Now, then, you fellows,” went on Ramiro, “give up your arms.” Martin thought a while. Evidently he was wondering whether it would not be best to rush at them and die fighting. At that moment, as he said afterwards indeed, the old saying came into his mind, “A game is not lost until it is won,” and remembering that dead men can never have another chance of winning games, he gave up the sword. “Hand that to me,” said Ramiro. “It is a curious weapon to which I have taken a fancy.”