So Guy, not daring to tell his story of the Duke’s treasure, finds himself in sorry plight, some of his crew leaving him for other captains who can pay them advance money. Finally growing desperate, he comes one day to Lord Burleigh and says to him: “You like money as much as any man.” “You’re right,” replies Burleigh, rubbing his hands. “I can’t tell you where I’m going to get this money, but there is a treasure box to be unlocked by a man willing to risk his life. I am willing to risk mine. I know where the treasure is.” “Where?” “That I shall never tell. But you have had my word before about certain matters and you have found my word was truth. In fact, I’ve made your name as statesman.” “You have made my name as statesman?” “Yes, by my advice about the Gueux, you are now called the astute, the wise, far-seeing old fox Burleigh.” “Yes, at the risk of my weazen head,” replies his lordship, glumly. “Nevertheless you want to talk to me about—money?” “Yes! Advance me six thousand crowns and if I come back alive I’ll pay you sixty thousand—ten for one. You’d better make it ten thousand crowns, then you’ll have a hundred thousand. It is like dicing. I risk my life, you risk your money.” “I value my ten thousand crowns more than you do your life,” chuckles his lordship, and sends him away. But about this time Francis Drake, happening to come back from the Spanish Main, his vessel heavily laden with silver ingots from some captured galleon, and Guy having set report afloat that his treasure is also in the West Indies, his lordship, in the course of a few days, sends after Chester and tells him that he cannot advance the money himself, but for a commission he can get certain London merchants to advance ten thousand crowns at the terms of payment Guy has offered. With a jump the young man accepts, and this sum of money being turned over to him, refits his vessel, fills up his crew to fighting strength, which is easy as most of his best men, headed by Dalton and Croker, have never left him, and sets sail for the Netherlands, notwithstanding it is wintry weather now, to arrive in Flushing early in December. Here he has hardly dropped anchor when surprises come upon him. A boat boards him from the shore and Achille, who now acts as cabin boy, comes screaming down the hatch-way: “Monsieur Oliver! My master, the painter Oliver!” In a jump, and with a shout of joy, Chester is on deck, and Englishman as he is, permits himself to be embraced and kissed, even in sight of his grinning crew for it is Oliver, and he is as one returned from the dead, as Alva has recaptured Mons and gibbeted most of its defenders. “Come in the cabin and tell me your news. You’re no artist now, you’re only a fighting man,” mutters Guy with a mighty grip of the hand and watery look in his eye, as he gazes on Antony. “Tell me your news—what of the woman I love?” cries the painter. “Safe.” “Thank God!” “Come in, I’ll tell you.”