Then they let them through the watergate, and there, on the further side, were many gathered who thanked God for their deliverance, and begged tidings of them. “Come to the house in the Bree Straat and we will tell you from the balcony,” answered Foy. So they rowed from one cut and canal to another till at last they came to the private boat-house of the van Goorls, and entered it, and thus by the small door into the house. Lysbeth van Goorl, recovered from her illness now, but aged and grown stern with suffering, sat in an armchair in the great parlour of her home in the Bree Straat, the room where as a girl she had cursed Montalvo; where too not a year ago, she had driven his son, the traitor Adrian, from her presence. At her side was a table on which stood a silver bell and two brass holders with candles ready to be lighted. She rang the bell and a woman-servant entered, the same who, with Elsa, had nursed her in the plague. “What is that murmuring in the street?” Lysbeth asked. “I hear the sound of many voices. Is there more news from Haarlem?” “Alas! yes,” answered the woman. “A fugitive says that the executioners there are weary, so now they tie the poor prisoners back to back and throw them into the mere to drown.” A groan burst from Lysbeth’s lips. “Foy, my son, is there,” she muttered, “and Elsa Brant his affianced wife, and Martin his servant, and many another friend. Oh! God, how long, how long?” and her head sank upon her bosom. Soon she raised it again and said, “Light the candles, woman, this place grows dark, and in its gloom I see the ghosts of all my dead.” They burned up—two stars of light in the great room. “Whose feet are those upon the stairs?” asked Lysbeth, “the feet of men who bear burdens. Open the large doors, woman, and let that enter which it pleases God to send us.” So the doors were flung wide, and through them came people carrying a wounded man, then following him Foy and Elsa, and, lastly, towering above them all, Red Martin, who thrust before him another man. Lysbeth rose from her chair to look. “Do I dream?” she said, “or, son Foy, hath the Angel of the Lord delivered you out of the hell of Haarlem?” “We are here, mother,” he answered. “And whom,” she said, pointing to the figure covered with a cloak, “do you bring with you?” “Adrian, mother, who is dying.” “Then, son Foy, take him hence; alive, dying, or dead, I have done with——” Here her eyes fell upon Red Martin and the man he held, “Martin the Frisian,” she muttered, “but who——” Martin heard, and by way of answer lifted up his prisoner so that the fading light from the balcony windows fell full upon his face. “What!” she cried. “Juan de Montalvo as well as his son Adrian, and in this room——” Then she checked herself and added, “Foy, tell me your story.”