"And the grief you are preparing for him so coolly?" Ghysbrecht spoke sarcastically, but tasted his own vengeance all the time. "Oh, a lie is not like a blow with a curtal axe. It hacks no flesh, and breaks no bones." "A curtal axe?" said Sybrandt; "no, nor even like a stroke with a cudgel." And he shot a sly envenomed glance at the burgomaster's broken nose. Ghysbrecht's face darkened with ire when this adder's tongue struck his wound. But it told, as intended: the old man bristled with hate. "Well," said he, "tell me what to write for you, and I must write it: but, take notice, you bear the blame if aught turns amiss. Not the hand which writes, but the tongue which dictates, doth the deed." The brothers assented warmly, sneering within. Ghysbrecht then drew his inkhorn towards him, and laid the specimen of Margaret Van Eyck's writing before him, and made some inquiries as to the size and shape of the letter; when an unlooked-for interruption occurred; Jorian Ketel burst hastily into the room, and looked vexed at not finding him alone. "Thou seest I have matter on hand, good fellow." "Ay; but this is grave. I bring good news; but 'tis not for every ear." The burgomaster rose, and drew Jorian aside into the embrasure of his deep window, and then the brothers heard them converse in low but eager tones. It ended by Ghysbrecht sending Jorian out to saddle his mule. He then addressed the black sheep with a sudden coldness that amazed them: "I prize the peace of households; but this is not a thing to be done in a hurry: we will see about, we will see." "But, burgomaster, the man will be gone. It will be too late." "Where is he?" "At the hostelry, drinking." "Well, keep him drinking! We will see, we will see." And he sent them off discomfited. * * * * * To explain all this we must retrograde a step. This very morning then, Margaret Brandt had met Jorian Ketel near her own door. He passed her with a scowl. This struck her, and she remembered him. "Stay," said she. "Yes! it is the good man who saved him. Oh! why have you not been near me since? And why have you not come for the parchments? Was it not true about the hundred crowns?" Jorian gave a snort: but, seeing her face that looked so candid, began to think there might be some mistake. He told her he had come, and how he had been received. "Alas!" said she, "I knew nought of this. I lay at death's door." She then invited him to follow her, and took him into the garden and showed him the spot where the parchments were buried. "Martin was for taking them up, but I would not let him. _He_ put them there: and I said none should move them but you, who had earned them so well of him and me." "Give me a spade!" cried Jorian, eagerly. "But stay! No; he is a suspicious man. You are sure they are there still?" "I will openly take the blame if human hand hath touched them."