“By heaven! what a triumph to pluck the thing Alva loves most out of his hands; to make his own daughter that he prizes the most of anything on this earth the bride, the honored bride, of the man upon whose head he has placed three thousand carolus guilders reward—the sea pirate—‘The First of the English.’” and he bursts out into mocking, triumphant, but loving laughter. CHAPTER V. “THE LION’S JAWS GAPE FOR ME!” “Bravo!” cries the Fleming, “Bravo! But first she must love you.” “I’ll make her love me,” exclaims Chester, looking at the ruby ring upon his finger that seems to him not the red light of danger, but the beacon of Cupid. “Well, I’m glad you are so confident. I wish I were equally so.” the painter sighs; then goes on energetically: “But now to business. You cannot linger over your love-making. Queen Elizabeth must be warned of the plots against her life, and of Ridolfi, the Italian banker in London.” “Oh, we’ll take good care of him,” says Guy, savagely. “I must join my ship this evening and sail for England, and to do this I must get the words of to-night so I can pass the gates of the town after sunset.” “Why not leave at once?” “Because,” answers the Englishman, “you have not yet given me the translation of those letters. That will take you some time.” “No, it won’t.” “Why not?” “Because I shall not make the translation; I shall simply give you the key to the cipher, then they can be interpreted in England, and any other letters of this correspondence that may come into your hands will be equally readable by Queen Elizabeth and her ministers. It will save you many dangerous visits here.” With this the artist sits down and writes in a few minutes the explanation of the cipher. Then saying: “Place that with the letters,” he gives it to Guy, smiles at him, and murmurs: “Now I should think you would be in a hurry to leave, with that price upon your head.” “I’m not going until to-night,” answers Chester, almost surlily. “The evening tide will serve as well for my vessel—it will not delay me much. Besides—” here he catches sight of the painter’s face in quizzical smile, and cries out: “Gadzooks, man! you don’t think I’m going to leave Antwerp without seeing her again.” He waves his hand toward the divine beauty of the face upon the canvas lighted up by the morning sun, and shining upon him not only with heavenly, but with earthly, love—at least so this audacious young man imagines. “Ah! going to ask papa for the young lady?” jeers the painter. “Not yet, though I have a letter of introduction to him,” remarks Guy, piqued into producing the billet given to him by Doña Hermoine the evening before, the one addressed to Alva, Viceroy of Spain. “And you haven’t opened it?” queries Oliver, examining the missive. “Certainly not; it is sealed.”