“Why, my lodger, the painter, Antony Oliver. He came in from Brussels this morning. He is as eager to see you as you are to see him.” But the last of this speech is lost upon the Englishman, who has darted up two flights of stairs to the top of the house, where, under the tiled gables, amid the swallows’ nests, is the lodging room and atelier of Antonius Oliver (familiarly called Antony), geographical map maker, herald and pursevant, and at times assistant secretary to Alva, Viceroy of the Netherlands. This gentleman’s salary is not great; his position, while partially confidential, is not very exalted; though it often brings him into direct contact with the great Duke himself. For Oliver has striven, with all his might and main to gain the confidence of his master. He is a native of Mons, near the French border of the Netherlands, and is partly of Flemish and partly of Gallic extraction. At present he is apparently washing the dust of travel from his face, as he makes his appearance minus his cloak and doublet, towel in hand, and answers the Englishman’s smart knock on his door. “Ah!” he cries, his face full of sunny smile, “I am delighted to see you, my friend, my Guido!” “And so am I, Antony, my boy,” answers Chester, with hearty outstretched hand. For a few weeks of supreme mutual danger have made these two men as good comrades as years of ordinary friendship. “So glad to see you,” goes on the Fleming, “and yet sorry.” He whispers: “You know of the reward for you?” “Yes, I’ve seen it,” answers Guy, shortly. “Ah! at your inn?” “No, in the guard-room of the Citadel.” “Mon Dieu! You have been arrested and examined,” the painter gasps, anxiously. “No, I went as cavalier to a great court lady!” laughs the English sailor. “For it I am to be promoted to a colonelship in Romero’s musketeers!” “Impossible! Tell me your story!” “I will,” says Guy, “it contains the business that brought me to Antwerp.” “Yes,” answers the other, meditatively, “your business must be of the greatest importance to make you again take this risk.” “It is for the same old reason—my Queen!” whispers Guy; “Is there no one about?” “No; Achille, my apprentice, I have sent out on a long errand, as I expected your coming and wanted to have private converse.” “What long errand?” “I sent him out to buy wine, bread, provisions, cheese, beef, on credit. Achille is an active boy, if I had given him the money he would have been back in half an hour.” Then carefully barring the door and drawing a heavy curtain over it, Oliver says: “Tell me your story.”