Martin turned red as his own beard and looked uncomfortable. “I believe,” he answered, staring upwards, “that it was the ancient Sword of Justice of a little place up in Friesland. As to how I came by it, well, I forget.” “And you call yourself a good Christian,” said Foy reproachfully. “Now I have heard that your head was going to be chopped off with this sword, but that somehow you managed to steal it first and got away.” “There was something of the sort,” mumbled Martin, “but it is so long ago that it slips my mind. I was so often in broils and drunk in those days—may the dear Lord forgive me—that I can’t quite remember things. And now, by your leave, I want to go to sleep.” “You old liar,” said Foy shaking his head at him, “you killed that poor executioner and made off with his sword. You know you did, and now you are ashamed to own the truth.” “May be, may be,” answered Martin vacuously; “so many things happen in the world that a fool man cannot remember them all. I want to go to sleep.” “Martin,” said Foy, sitting down upon a stool and dragging off his leather jerkin, “what used you to do before you turned holy? You have never told me all the story. Come now, speak up. I won’t tell Adrian.” “Nothing worth mentioning, Master Foy.” “Out with it, Martin.” “Well, if you wish to know, I am the son of a Friesland boor.” “—And an Englishwoman from Yarmouth: I know all that.” “Yes,” repeated Martin, “an Englishwoman from Yarmouth. She was very strong, my mother; she could hold up a cart on her shoulders while my father greased the wheels, that is for a bet; otherwise she used to make my father hold the cart up while _she_ greased the wheels. Folk would come to see her do the trick. When I grew up I held the cart and they both greased the wheels. But at last they died of the plague, the pair of them, God rest their souls! So I inherited the farm——” “And—” said Foy, fixing him with his eye. “And,” jerked out Martin in an unwilling fashion, “fell into bad habits.” “Drink?” suggested the merciless Foy. Martin sighed and hung his great head. He had a tender conscience. “Then you took to prize-fighting,” went on his tormentor; “you can’t deny it; look at your nose.” “I did, master, for the Lord hadn’t touched my heart in those days, and,” he added, brisking up, “it wasn’t such a bad trade, for nobody ever beat me except a Brussels man once when I was drunk. He broke my nose, but afterwards, when I was sober—” and he stopped. “You killed the Spanish boxer here in Leyden,” said Foy sternly. “Yes,” echoed Martin, “I killed him sure enough, but—oh! it was a pretty fight, and he brought it on himself. He was a fine man, that Spaniard, but the devil wouldn’t play fair, so I just had to kill him. I hope that they bear in mind up above that I _had_ to kill him.”