“You have come, I suppose, from the Middelburg garrison,” remarks the Spaniard, “to see about your back pay. We haven’t had a stiver here, one of us, for a good many months, and I imagine you are no better off. But the tenth penny, my boy, will open up the paymaster’s department of the army If it doesn’t—” he looks savagely round, “we intend to take things into our own hands. This is a rich city, eh, for looting; the spoils of the Indies and Peru right here within our grasp. Some day we’ll make mincemeat of these burghers and take their goods and chattels and wives and daughters into our keeping for a day or two, eh! Booty and beauty!” “God help them,” thinks Guy, looking round the place, and into his mind coming a vision of that awful “Spanish Fury” that broke forth on Antwerp a few years afterwards. But he turns the conversation, murmuring: “Of course we haven’t been paid, but still I have a few doubloons in my pocket!” then cries: “Boy, another flask of wine!” This the two discuss together, the Spaniard telling the Englishman that, though Floris is owned to be the greatest wine bibber in the world, it is thought that the Six Drunkards of Brussels have some extraordinary plan for defeating him, at least so it is whispered about, and that if he has any money to venture on the game, to put it against the artist. “They’ll win, my boy,” he laughs. “I’ve seen little Tomasito himself drink eighteen flagons and never flinch a hair. Fancy what he will do when stimulated by the magnificent banquet that is going in there,” he points to the great wedding room at the rear, “and with the chance of winning five hundred guilders and side bets as well. Besides, De Guerra has been strangely happy for the last day, and he is never chuckling except when he sees the ducats ahead. But I think I can get a bet from Valdes, of our regiment. He has seen Floris drink, and swears that no man under heaven is his equal. Excuse me on this little matter of business,” and Ensign de Busaco rises and joins a group of Spanish officers at the other end of the room, much to Guy’s pleasure, for he sees that the painter, Antony Oliver, has returned and is anxiously looking at him. As the Spaniard turns his back the Flemish artist is by Chester’s side whispering: “I have done your errand.” “She will come?” “Yes, but I had great difficulty. She was as chilly as an iceberg at first, asking how I dared bring such an audacious message.” “And then?” queries Guy eagerly. “Then I gave her the ring and told her that it was necessary for your safety that she meet you; that you had periled yourself coming to this town for her escort when you were absent from your garrison without leave.” “What next?” says Chester. “Next she said nonchalantly: ‘I shall be at the house of the burgher Bodé Volcker at three o’clock this day. My duenna, the Countess de Pariza, thinks she would like to see the merchant’s daughter dance again.’” “Anything else?” mutters Guy, discontentedly.