Next getting the four vessels in the form of a parallelogram, they lash them stem and stern all round—making the broadside of each ship one side of a floating citadel. Then putting out grappling irons and small anchors set in the ice, to which are attached cables they moor their ships strongly to prevent drifting against the ice and giving chance for boarding. “Pardieu!” exclaims Oliver. “This is a new idea. They can’t get at us.” “Not a man of them can board our ships if our cables hold so as to prevent drift and we can keep the ice broken,” answers Guy. At this work they all set themselves, toiling watch and watch and finding it tremendous labor, for the cold still continues, and the ice grows thicker and more resisting. So they are all happy when the lookout from his chilly post at the masthead cries: “They’re coming!” and gazing over the frozen field they see some fifteen hundred picked Spanish and Walloon infantry tramping their slippery path to give them death. This seems an easy task to the attacking party—vessels imprisoned in the ice—they look for a cool, comfortable butchery of their crews. And they come on in that confident manner with which Spanish infantry always met the Dutch, until after ten years of hard fighting the Hollanders had made themselves as good troops on land as any infantry in Europe. But on the sea the Dutch are at home; so with their guns—demi-culverins, falcons and falconettes—loaded to their nozzles with arquebus bullets and nails and scraps of iron; with pikes and battle axes ready to hand, they look quite confidently and eagerly from their wooden citadel floating upon this ice-bound lake. This moat of ice cold water will give Alva’s veterans more difficulty in escalade than the deepest fosse of any walled town they have stormed within the Netherlands. But not guessing what is before them, and the weather being bracing, the Spanish arquebusiers come on with a cheer, their commander apparently giving order for quick time. “Thank God, these fellows are not going to keep us waiting long,” laughs Guy, beating his mailed hands together, “a steel bodice and metal hose are not over comfortable this December weather.” This is Sir Guy Chester’s first fight since he has been dubbed Knight, and he is in full panoply, helmet, plumes and visor, breast-plate and back piece, even to golden spurs, the badge of his order. This ice slippery deck is not as convenient for displaying his Italian armor as the back of dashing war-horse on a tented field, but the age of chivalry has not quite passed away—knighthood still means military nobility—the gilded spurs still indicate blue blood and ‘daring do’—what youth could resist wearing its insignia—not Guy Chester. His crew cheer his gallant appearance, knowing well that underneath his Milan mail is a leader they can trust and follow. “Oho!” screams Oliver, with sudden mercurial laugh. “See! The Spanish dogs are tumbling over each other. This will be a slippery affair.”