“It was a Berserker oath,” he mutters, “but I’ll keep it.” And gazes at his foes who have done his friend to death with something of that noble madness that burned in the Berserker’s veins, that rage to slay his enemies without thought of life, that exultation to kill, no matter whether he goes down or no, so long as he has his fill of slaughter and revenge. But the Dutch sailor’s voice brings fighting from the romantic to the matter of fact basis. He says: “Captain Chester, we’re in a bad way. We’re on the wrong side of the Diemerdyk. Without weapons we’re in a bad way. We can’t recross it to our friends, for the whole causeway is now lined by those infernal Spanish troops. But, we’ve sent a few of them ahead of us to-day, and will do for a few more before they do for us, though we’ve only got teeth and nails to do it with,” the two having been compelled to throw away their arms to gain the boat. “We’re not on the wrong side of the Diemerdyk,” Guy returns stoutly. “At least, I am not.” “Why?” asks Haring, opening his eyes. “Because I go to Haarlem, and you’re the man to take me there. You know all this country?” “Every drop of water, every grain of sand in it. That’s why I fight for it.” “Then you, perhaps, know some way by which we can get from here to the Haarlem Lake.” “Without arms?” says the Dutchman. “It’ll be difficult; we can’t fight, and I—I hate to run from Spaniards!” “Fly now, sneak next, fight afterwards,” mutters Guy, “and we’ve got to be quick about it.” For the Spaniards are attempting to get a boat across the causeway to pursue them. Fortunately there are two pairs of oars in their boat, which is a light one, and bending to these Haring and Chester take course toward the southwest end of the little Diemer pond, scarce two miles in length. They are now safe from immediate pursuit, as the Spaniards, seeing them row away, have desisted in their efforts to get a boat over the dyke; so the two go into hasty consultation. “It’s impossible to escape that way,” explains Haring, pointing to the east, where the Utrecht road borders the lake. “That’s too heavily patrolled. We may get out at the west where the lake joins the river Amstel. It’s only a mile south of Amsterdam; they have guard boats there.” This is the direction in which Guy wants to go, and he eagerly assents to this proposition, suggesting: “In the waterways and lakes with which this country is covered is there not some route by which we can get ourselves in this boat to the Haarlem meer?” “Yes, there’s one way,” replies Haring. “But the first six miles will be with our lives in our hands. The last twelve miles will be in the debatable land where we may meet enemies and have to fight them, or friends who will give us succor. If we had arms,” mutters the Hollander, “we would have a fighting chance to get to Haarlem Lake, and then a running one of dodging Alva’s vessels.” “Arms!” mutters Guy, “you have your sailor’s knife, and I have got my poniard.”