But that very night the providence of God that sent the cold, gives them one chance of escape, the last of that winter, for the miracle does happen. The strong wind and high tide and mild thawing weather come together and the tide is high enough for them to pass over the Pampus. The wind blows the sea about smashing the rotten ice and bellies out their sails as the four ships, setting every rag they can carry, beat their way to the north, and the next morning are safe in their harbor of Enkhuyzen. But Chester knows very little about this. He is raving with the fever of his wound. CHAPTER XVI. THE BERSERKER OATH. In the course of time Chester recovers from Spanish bullet wound, though not very rapidly, the surgery of that day being crude, unscientific and quite often deadly. When he regains his strength he finds the Dover Lass frozen in at the harbor of Enkhuyzen. Guy perceives they have made a terrible mistake in sailing to the northward. Had they remained at Delft they would probably by this time have got the girl out of Haarlem over the frozen lake. Now, between them and the hapless city stands the great dyke along the Y, patrolled by Alva’s soldiers, protected by Alva’s forts, cutting off North Holland effectually from giving succor to the besieged. His vessel will be useless for several months on account of the ice, and besought by Oliver, who has divided his time between nursing his wounded comrade and making desperate attempts to elude the vigilance of Alva’s troops and get to Haarlem, Chester finally makes his way across Waterland to Egmont. Here Diederick Sonoy, who holds North Holland for the Prince of Orange, is getting together an expedition to attack the Diemerdyk at some vulnerable point and fortify it, cutting off Amsterdam and the Spaniards from supplies, as they have been cutting off Haarlem. “Pardieu!” remarks Oliver, as they make the journey over frozen lakes and by villages half buried in snow, “if I had had my altar piece with me I could have finished it between skirmishes. I’ve done nothing for my art, nothing—even for my love.” He wrings his hands desperately. “What have I done for mine?” mutters Guy. “Diable!” says the painter, who guesses what is in his companion’s mind. Alva’s treasure will be undisturbed until the Duke leaves the Low Countries. Not even riot of unpaid troops will make him disgorge it. It is salted down for the winter. “You are sure the Duke has no hint of your having the keys made?” interjects Guy uneasily. “Certainly not—for I never had them manufactured—I felt I was suspected even when I reached Malines—so I gave no order about the keys, and before I fled from Brussels destroyed the drafts,” answers Oliver. A moment after he adds, with a smile: “As for Alva’s daughter, she is probably mourning for Colonel Guido Amati de Medina.”