Then at last his chance had come. Ramiro, thinking that now he could never turn against him, had given him Elsa, and left him with her while he went about his duties and to secure a share of the plunder, meaning to deal with his prisoners on the morrow. So he, Adrian, a man in authority, had provided the boat and freed them. That was all he had to say, except to renounce any claim upon her who was called his wife, and to beg their forgiveness. Foy listened to the end. Then, dropping his oar for a moment, he put his arm about Adrian’s waist and hugged him, saying in his old cheery voice: “I was right after all. You know, Adrian, I always stood up for you, notwithstanding your temper and queer ways. No, I never would believe that you were a villain, but neither could I ever have believed that you were quite such an ass.” To this outspoken estimate of his character, so fallen and crushed was he, his brother had not the spirit to reply. He could merely tug at his oar and groan, while the tears of shame and repentance ran down his pale and handsome face. “Never mind, old fellow,” said Foy consolingly. “It all went wrong, thanks to you, and thanks to you I believe that it will all come right again. So we will cry quits and forget the rest.” Poor Adrian glanced up at Foy and at Elsa sitting on the thwart of the boat by his side. “Yes, brother,” he answered, “for you and Elsa it may come right, but not for me in this world, for I—I have sold myself to the devil and—got no pay.” After that for a while no one spoke; all felt that the situation was too tragic for speech; even the follies, and indeed the wickedness, of Adrian were covered up, were blotted out in the tragedy of his utter failure, yes, and redeemed by the depth of his atonement. The grey light of the summer morning began to grow on the surface of the great inland sea. Far behind them they beheld the sun’s rays breaking upon the gilt crown that is set above the tower of St. Bavon’s Church, soaring over the lost city of Haarlem and the doomed patriots who lay there presently to meet their death at the murderer’s sword. They looked and shuddered. Had it not been for Adrian they would be prisoners now, and what that meant they knew. If they had been in any doubt, what they saw around must have enlightened them, for here and there upon the misty surface of the lake, or stranded in its shallows, were the half-burnt out hulls of ships, the remains of the conquered fleet of William the Silent; a poor record of the last desperate effort to relieve the starving city. Now and again, too, something limp and soft would cumber their oars, the corpse of a drowned or slaughtered man still clad perchance in its armour.