“It’s an article ’f charter—firm of Jacobszoon & Olins, for Cap’n Andrea Blanco—you know Cap’n Andrea—Andrea Blanco?” he winks cunningly, “of—er ship Esperanza.” “A charter in ballast?” cries Niklaas, commercial instinct rising in him. “What drunken nonsense is this? There’s no money in charter in ballast.” “Not er charter in ballast, but charter to—convey twelve cases of goods—landed las’ night at yer warehouse—’bout twelve ’clock. See the pint, Bodé Vol—Volcker?” And this being emphasized with drunken leer and wink, Bodé Volcker sees the point with an awful gulp of terror, then gasps: “You—you’re accusing me of smuggling; that—that’s only a fine!” “Yesh—fine of your head!” “Smuggling lace—the fine of my head—you’re drunk!” replies the merchant, plucking up courage. “Smuggling arquebuses—packed in lace—time of war—is torture as well.” “Good God!” cries Niklaas, “arquebuses! I have been imposed upon—that villain Olins—arquebuses!” And Guy knows that Bodé Volcker is not a patriot, but only a smuggler. “Jush th’ same—cost your—hic—your head,” hiccoughs Guy. Then he suggests, with drunken leer: “I couldn’t bear to have my future banker—th’ man who’s going to give me all—hic—the gambling money I want, pass out of the world. See the pint, Bodé Volcker!” “How much money do you demand? I’m—I’m a poor man!” “You’ll be a poorer man soon! See the pint, Bodé Volcker!” and avarice grins at fear. “How much money do you want?” pleads the man of commerce. “Lotsch; but we’ll talk ’bout that afterwards,” hiccoughs Chester. “Sign this charter—get vessel ’way first, then we’ll have bottle or two together, and I’ll draw a ducish big draft on you.” “You’ll not betray me—you’re sure they’re arquebuses?” “Call in custom house officers—open ’em and see!” cries Guy. But this is too horrible for contemplation. Bodé Volcker signs with a palsied hand the charter paper of the Esperanza to leave Antwerp forthwith for Amsterdam and other ports on general trade. “As you love yourself, Bodé Volcker—my dear banker, Bodé Volcker,—get those goods on board at once,” whispers Guy, pocketing the charter paper, “and—and bring me a bottle of wine.” “Yes, I’ll give orders instantly,” gasps the merchant. But even as he rises to do this there is a whirr of wheels, a clack of whip outside, and a clatter of horses’ hoofs as a post chaise, apparently at desperate speed, dashes into the courtyard. A moment afterwards all thought of drunkenness leaves with one flash the mind of the Englishman. A voice imperative but sweet; a voice that sets Guy’s heart beating more than the danger of detection, more even than the terror of death, says outside the door: “Announce to your master Hermoine de Alva!” “Good heavens! Alva’s daughter!” mutters the burgomaster. “She must not see you. Leave by the back door!” But Chester would not leave now for death itself. “Oho! gay Bodé Volcker! ladies,” hiccoughs Guy in a feeble attempt to keep up his character. “I never desert ladies.”