“Get me papers to Amsterdam.” This is the first place that comes into Guy’s head. “Very well, they shall be obtained. But,” adds the merchant nervously, “without a charter it would look very suspicious!” “I’ll get you the charter,” cries Guy, a sudden idea flashing through his brain. “From whom?” “From your fellow patriot, Bodé Volcker.” This is in his ear. “Good God! You know—” “Yes, arquebuses, packed in lace, that is not a fine—but death,” whispers Guy. “Fill out an order for charter to Amsterdam.” And the merchant, sitting down to write this, Chester admires him—for patriot Jan Olins’ handwriting is as firm and regular as commercial copper-plate. “Get the papers through the custom house at once,” whispers Guy. Then hurrying to his ship once more he dives into his cabin to reappear a few moments after, rearrayed not as Andrea Blanco, merchant mariner, but as Guido Amati, the dashing soldier of Spain, for he judges this the best guise in which to have his interview with ex-Burgomaster Bodé Volcker. At the merchant’s warehouse he is disappointed to find that Niklaas is still at his home upon the Meir. Making his way there a sudden idea comes to him, that he can do this business better as debauchee spendthrift than in any other guise. He will come apparently as spy for bribe; he will demand gold, but get charter papers. Willing to play ignoble role for such result, he tosses about his hair, disheveling it, slouching his hat over his eyes and assuming the gait of partial drunkenness, he continues his way to the Bodé Volcker mansion and enters the business portion of the house. A number of clerks are there, the general routine of the office is going on quite briskly. Here he is received most obsequiously by bowing clerk, who asks almost tremblingly his name and desires—for these Spanish soldiers of fortune were quick with blow of hand or knife to Flemish townsmen. Demanding word with Bodé Volcker, he is shortly shown into that gentleman’s private office next his counting room. Here, with well-assumed drunken leer and one or two suggestive hiccoughs, he closes and locks the door, the merchant gazing at him in astonishment, perhaps alarm, for Guy’s appearance, with matted, tossed about hair, and rolling eyes, a strange excitement in them, brought about by his desperate situation, gives him the look of having just risen from a late and prolonged debauch. “Yer know me—y’know me—I’m—I’m Major Guido A—Amati, o —er—Romero’s foot,” hiccoughs the pseudo Spanish roisterer. “Yes, I—I had the honor of seeing you at my house once, Captain Amati.” “Major—Major Amati de Medina—don’t you forget th’ De Medina. Sit—sit down and—hic—sign this!” And Guy presses the merchant into his chair from which he has half risen, and slaps in front of him the charter paper. “What—what is this?” stammers Bodé Volcker.