“Yes,” answered Elsa feebly, “I—I—was. I tried to buy myself off by telling Ramiro the secret, which will show you all how mad I was with terror at the thought of this hateful marriage”—here a groan burst from the lips of Adrian, and something like a chuckle from those of Red Martin. “Oh! I am so sorry,” went on Elsa in confusion; “I am sure that I did not wish to hurt Adrian’s feelings, especially after he has been so good to us.” “Never mind Adrian’s feelings and his goodness, but go on with the story,” interrupted Foy. “There isn’t much more to tell. Ramiro swore before God that if I gave him the clue he would let me go, and then—then, well, then, after I had fallen into the pit and disgraced myself, he said that it was not sufficient, and that the marriage must take place.” At this point Foy and Martin laughed outright. Yes, even there they laughed. “Why, you silly child,” said Foy, “what else did you expect him to say?” “Oh! Martin, do you forgive me?” said Elsa. “Immediately after I had done it I knew how shameful it was, and that he would try to hunt you down, and that is why I have been afraid to tell you ever since. But I pray you believe me; I only spoke because, between shame and fear, I did not know right from wrong. Do you forgive me?” “Lady,” answered the Frisian, smiling in his slow fashion, “if I had been there unknown to Ramiro, and you had offered him this head of mine on a dish as a bribe, not only would I have forgiven you but I would have said that you did right. You are a maid, and you had to protect yourself from a very dreadful thing; therefore who can blame you?” “I can,” said Martha. “Ramiro might have torn me to pieces with red-hot pincers before I told him.” “Yes,” said Martin, who felt that he had a debt to pay, “Ramiro might, but I doubt whether he would have gone to that trouble to persuade you to take a husband. No, don’t be angry. ‘Frisian thick of head, Frisian free of speech,’ goes the saying.” Not being able to think of any appropriate rejoinder, Martha turned again upon Elsa. “Your father died for that treasure,” she said, “and Dirk van Goorl died for it, and your lover and his serving-man there went to the torture-den for it, and I—well, I have done a thing or two. But you, girl, why, at the first pinch, you betray the secret. But, as Martin says, I was fool enough to tell you.” “Oh! you are hard,” said Elsa, beginning to weep under Martha’s bitter reproaches; “but you forget that at least none of you were asked to marry—oh! I mustn’t say that. I mean to become the wife of one man;” then her eyes fell upon Foy and an inspiration seized her; here, at least, was one of whom she could make a friend—“when you happen to be very much in love with another.” “Of course not,” said Foy, “there is no need for you to explain.”