“You forget, burgher, you are speaking of the Viceroy to the Viceroy’s daughter.” The tone is commanding but sad. “I pardon your treason, for you know not what you say. But do not dare to criticise my father’s policy of State. In that even I do not interfere, though I am sick—sick of the blood, sick of the butcheries each day’s report brings from the army or the execution shambles in the Horse Market. Each day I pray to the Virgin to make my father’s heart more merciful. Each night I pray ‘No more blood.’ God knows I have importuned him to spare, but he will not. He says it is the policy of the government, that he is as merciful as God, the church and his King will permit him to be, and goes on executing. Every time I see a woman in black I fear it is my father’s doings. I am here to save your daughter. Get her away! If you cannot, I WILL.” Seeing the old man appears so overcome that he can hardly walk, she cries out eagerly, “Get a boat—a ship, quick! It’s the only chance. Get her to some town or country where my father does not rule. Do you suppose he’ll forgive any one connected by love or by blood with this Oliver, who had his private ear, who ate the bread of his household, and who betrayed him? Quick, get your daughter out of Antwerp! Stay, it is better that I do it. I shall be safe, you might be punished for saving your own child. Bring your daughter here. What your trembling limbs refuse to do I’ll do for you.” Here sudden inspiration seems to come into the old merchant. He sobs: “God bless you! Though you are your father’s daughter—God bless you! I know a man that can do it. There is a ship even now waiting for him.” “Whom?” “A debauchee, gambler, blackleg—who’s in the next room. If he’s not too drunk he can get my daughter out of Antwerp. Speak to him, command him, he’ll obey the daughter of Alva. He’s one of your father’s officers—Major Guido Amati.” “Good heavens, what an introduction!” shudders Guy, his hair rising up as he mutters curses with white lips. If Bodé Volcker wishes revenge upon the spy who has caused his heart to flutter with fear of loss of life and loss of money, could he see the debauchee Guido Amati, he’d know he had it now. Then the clanging of the door closing shows Niklaas has gone to his daughter. A moment after there is a sigh, faint on the air, tender, almost despairing, and the rustle of soft silks and laces, as if a woman in agony had sank down bowed by mighty sorrow. Blessing God for these sounds of agony and love, Guy Chester opens the door and looks into the office of Bodé Volcker. She is there, her head in her white, slender hands, suffering because she thinks him worthless. It is a sight of pleasure, not of pain. Did she not care for him would her beautiful form be convulsed with anguish at his debauchery? Did she not love him would she grieve if Guido Amati were roué and libertine?