From this melée Guy Chester drags out, stricken unto death, his friend the painter. Struggling to the entrenchment, he finds it deserted; all the men who should defend it having fled to near-by boats—save one, John Haring, from the town of Horn. Hero-like, he has planted himself in the narrowest part of the causeway before the coming foe and holds the place armed only with sword and shield, against a thousand veterans of Alva’s army. Fortunately these can only get at him one or two at a time, as the dyke is very narrow and the deep water of the Diemer Lake is on one side of it, and the rapid waters of the Y flow on the other. Haring’s defense gives Guy breathing time. Bending over his friend, he mutters between clenched teeth: “Don’t fear! These dogs of Spaniards shan’t get you alive.” Then he brushes the death sweat from his comrade’s brow, and with great sighs looks upon the face he loves growing ashen and its lips becoming blue. These open now in gasping, broken speech: “Save yourself.” “And you, too!” “Save yourself!” Oliver’s eyes have an agony in them that is not all the agony of death. “Save yourself to save my love. Swear to me, Guido, my friend, to save her!” “That was done already,” whispers Guy hurriedly; “What else?” “Only—but you are—not an—artist. Ehu! I would have liked—to have finished my—altar piece. I see—real—angels—now—” The last word is breathed upon the air in dying sigh, as Antony Oliver turns his blue eyes to heaven and his patriot soul goes where there are real angels and the true Madonna. Then Chester raises his bloodshot eyes to find his strait almost as desperate as the dead man’s. The Spaniards are charging them both front and rear. The Dutch bateaux have all been driven half a mile away; on the Y side Spanish vessels intervene and cut off all retreat. Guy gives one quick glance seeking chance of life, and finds it on the Diemer Lake. Some fifty yards from shore is a small shallop that, belonging to the Spanish patrol surprised at the place, has been cut from its moorings during the fight; it is the only boat on the Diemer side. With the instinct of emergency he springs beside Haring, crying: “There’s our only chance!” Together they make one quick, dashing onslaught on the Spaniards to gain time for the plunge, then spring into the Diemer. As they disappear a shout of rage goes up from Alva’s mercenaries, and Spanish arquebus balls splash the water all about them. But rising from their dive side by side and stroke by stroke, they make the boat, and assisting each other, clamber in, and taking oars, are soon out of shot. Then chancing to gaze at the dyke Guy shudders and turns away his head. “They’re cutting his head off,” whispers Haring. “It’s worth two thousand caroli at Alva’s tent.” Guy knows whose head the Dutch sailor means, and his soul grows very hard and cruel to the Spaniards. But this only adds to his resolve to keep his vow to his dead comrade, even at the cost of life.