“Her father sent her there to her relative, Pieter Kies.” “Haarlem!” The painter is transfixed with horror. “It is almost now surrounded!” he groans. “Haarlem! it is the town Alva has sworn to let no living man, woman nor child escape from. Haarlem! Haarlem! My God! Is she still there?” “I don’t know. I left her there, safe and happy waiting for you—her last words were of you.” “Haarlem! we must get there. We must try to save her. It is especially decreed that all refugees there shall have the torture as well as death. My Mina is a refugee. Help me, Englishman—you put my love into the fire—help me draw her forth!” moans Oliver, in almost unreasoning anguish. “Don’t reproach me,” mutters Guy. “I did the best I could for her. But I’ll help you get her out—with my life I’ll help you get her out.” “God bless you,” cries Oliver. “And your crew?” “They follow me.” “God bless them!” Then forgetting his treasure and turning once more his back upon his love he hungers for, Guy departs with his painter friend, who has now become a warrior, upon their errand of rescue that to succeed must be immediate. Dalton remarks to Guy as he receives orders to hoist the anchor and sail for the North: “This is hardly fair to those who assisted you with money, Captain Chester.” “Friendship before commerce—my friend’s happiness before the fortune of English bankers and usurers!” answers his commander. “Dalton, you have a sweetheart in England; what would you do to save her from Alva’s troops?” “Fight ’till I died.” “Then, man, my friend has his betrothed in Haarlem!” “Then I’ll fight for his sweetheart, too,” cries the rough lieutenant; and this story passing about the Dover Lass, the men sharpen their cutlasses and battle axes and give three cheers, singing in their cheery British way: “We’re going to fight for Portsmouth Poll.” The next day they make Delft, and find there is no chance of getting to Haarlem by way of Leyden. Here also they learn of the awful massacre at Naarden, five hundred burghers killed in the church, the rest of the inhabitants butchered by one means or another. The details are not complete, the affrighted peasants dare not visit the place from which comes up the wail of women and children heard three miles away. It is the Dutch town in the hands of Spanish soldiery, given up to loot and spoil, murder and ravage; it is the same tale as Mechlen, as Zutphen, the same tale wherever Alva’s veterans conquer. This makes Oliver desperate. He shudders at what he hears, but whispers with pale lips to Guy: “Our only chance is to get into the Zuyder Zee and by it into the Y and above Haarlem. That way is yet open.” “Perhaps!” returns Guy, doubtfully, “But it’s taking desperate chances. Both going and returning we’ve got to sneak past Amsterdam, where Alva is with all his army and probably war ships besides.” “Mon Dieu! You’re not going to desert her?” cries the Franco-Fleming pathetically.