In the cabin, each gives to the other revelation that astounds him. Oliver tells of his capture of Mons, how he himself slew the gatekeeper on guard at daybreak as his eight men, concealed in vegetables, and drawn in market carts, passed into the town; how Louis of Nassau, who was in waiting in the wood outside with five hundred horsemen, each with a footman mounted behind, got in, Oliver and his eight heroes holding the gate against the Spanish garrison until they passed the drawbridge. Then the details of Alva’s siege against them; how they hoped for success, having been promised succor from France; next the news of the fête of Catharine de Medici, the awful massacre of St. Bartholomew, when all the best blood of the Huguenots flooded the streets of Paris, and no aid of the dead Coligny could come to them; how Orange was beaten in his attempt to relieve them; how finally he, Oliver, Louis of Nassau, and some others escaped from Alva’s clutches, who, now having no fear of France, with every Huguenot chief struck down, is gathering together a great army of Spanish mercenaries to make the conquest of Holland, intending to use Amsterdam as his center, it being the only town in his hands. “By the by,” says Guy, “speaking of Spaniards, have you heard anything of our friend, Major Guido Amati?” “Colonel Guido Amati.” “The deuce you say—promoted?” “Yes. You’re a step nearer the Viceroy’s daughter,” laughs Antony. “Haven’t you heard? When Mondragon a month ago raised the siege of Tergoes, Major Guido Amati, heading the Spanish infantry, marched at night across the flooded Drowned Lands of South Beveland, where one step from the path meant drowning, where one hour’s delay in making that four hours’ crossing meant death by the rising tide, and so came in the darkness to rise in front of ’t Zeraert’s soldiers as if by magic in the morning, crossing a place we thought passable by only fishes or birds. For that march Mondragon reported Major Guido Amati for promotion. It was immediately granted; it generally takes a year. So you see you have been doing very well. Probably Doña de Alva is very proud of you now.” “Thank God,” laughs Guy, “my villain namesake has got to fighting again, and I’ll probably behave myself,” then says: “Have you heard of her?” “No, except she is still as beautiful as ever, but more haughtily cold. Even Noircarmes, it is rumored, scowls and twists his mustachios when Doña de Alva’s name is mentioned. Now tell me of my love.” On this, Guy, giving an account of his curious morning in Antwerp and how he had taken, by Doña de Alva’s command, Mina Bodé Volcker from torture and disgrace, Oliver, with tears in his eyes, cries out: “God bless her and curse her father. How can so tender a heart have Alva for a father?” A moment after he adds, somewhat anxiously: “Where did you take my Mina?” “To Haarlem.” “Haarlem!” This is a wailing shriek. “Good God, man, why did you do that?”