“Ah,” he said. “Take this. You'll have to be armed in future.” He handed me a beautiful little double-barrelled pocket pistol. “Be careful,” he said. “It's loaded. Put it in your pocket. You musn't be seen carrying arms here. That would never do.” “Boy,” said the captain. “D'ye think you could shin up that water-spout, so as to look over the parapet there, on to the leads of the houses?” “Yes,” I said. “I think I could, from the top of the wall.” “Why,” Mr. Jermyn said. “She couldn't have got up there.” “An active woman might,” the captain said. “You see, the water-spout is only six feet long from the wall to the eaves. There's good footing on the brackets. It's three quick steps. Then one vigorous heave over the parapet. There you are, snug as a purser's billet, out of sight.” “No woman could have done it,” Mr. Jermyn said. “Besides, look here. We can't go further in the matter. We've recovered the book. We must get back to the ship.” So the scheme of climbing up the water pipe came to nothing. We walked off together wondering where the woman had got to. Long afterwards I learned that she heard all that we said by the wall there. While we talked, she was busy reloading her pistol, waiting. At the door of the court we paused to pull out her knife from where it stuck. It was a not very large dagger-knife, with a small woman's grip, inlaid with silver, but bound at the guard with gold clasps. The end of the handle was also bound with gold. The edge of the broad, cutting blade curved to a long sharp point. The back was straight. On the blade was an inscription in Spanish, “Veneer o Morir” (“To conquer or die”), with the maker's name, Luis Socartes, Toledo, surrounded by a little twirligig. I have it in my hand as I write. I value it more than anything in my possession. It serves to remind me of a very remarkable woman. “There, Martin,” said Mr. Jermyn. “There's a curiosity for you. Get one of the seamen to make a sheath for it. Then you can wear it at your back on your belt like a sailor.”