“The old vagabond's skull cracked like a walnut. Aha!” “Heaven and the saints forbid it!” “He rolled off his mule like a stone shot out of a cart. Said I to myself, 'There is one wiped out,'” and the iron old soldier grinned ruthlessly. Gerard fell on his knees and began to pray for his enemy's life. At this Martin lost his patience. “Here's mummery. What! you that set up for learning, know you not that a wise man never strikes his enemy but to kill him? And what is all this coil about killing of old men? If it had been a young one, now, with the joys of life waiting for him, wine, women, and pillage! But an old fellow at the edge of the grave, why not shove him in? Go he must, to-day or to-morrow; and what better place for greybeards? Now, if ever I should be so mischancy as to last so long as Ghysbrecht did, and have to go on a mule's legs instead of Martin Wittenhaagen's, and a back like this (striking the wood of his bow), instead of this (striking the string), I'll thank and bless any young fellow who will knock me on the head, as you have done that old shopkeeper; malison on his memory. “Oh, culpa mea! culpa mea!” cried Gerard, and smote upon his breast. “Look there!” cried Martin to Margaret scornfully, “he is a priest at heart still--and when he is not in ire, St. Paul, what a milksop!” “Tush, Martin!” cried Margaret reproachfully: then she wreathed her arms round Gerard, and comforted him with the double magic of a woman's sense and a woman's voice. “Sweetheart!” murmured she, “you forget: you went not a step out of the way to harm him, who hunted you to your death. You fled from him. He it was who spurred on you. Then did you strike; but in self-defence and a single blow, and with that which was in your hand. Malice had drawn knife, or struck again and again. How often have men been smitten with staves not one but many blows, yet no lives lost! If then your enemy has fallen, it is through his own malice, not yours, and by the will of God.” “Bless you, Margaret; bless you for thinking so!” “Yes; but, beloved one, if you have had the misfortune to kill that wicked man, the more need is there that you fly with haste from Holland. Oh, let us on.” “Nay, Margaret,” said Gerard. “I fear not man's vengeance, thanks to Martin here and this thick wood: only Him I fear whose eye pierces the forest and reads the heart of man. If I but struck in self-defence, 'tis well; but if in hate, He may bid the avenger of blood follow me to Italy--to Italy? ay, to earth's remotest bounds.” “Hush!” said Martin peevishly. “I can't hear for your chat.” “What is it?” “Do you hear nothing, Margaret; my ears are getting old.” Margaret listened, and presently she heard a tuneful sound, like a single stroke upon a deep ringing bell. She described it so to Martin. “Nay, I heard it,” said he. “And so did I,” said Gerard; “it was beautiful. Ah! there it is again. How sweetly it blends with the air. It is a long way off. It is before us, is it not?”