The Duke is talking quietly to Alfonso de Ulloa and Pedro Paciotto, his great military engineer, who ride immediately behind him. All are covered with the dust of hasty travel. As they pass the Painted Inn the Viceroy’s piercing eyes look haughtily upon the crowd that stand upon the steps and throng the pentice of the hostelry with doffed hats to do him reverence. Suddenly reining up, he cries: “Oliver! Antonius Oliver!” and the painter, stepping forth, bows before the Duke of Alva’s charger. “It is fate I have got word with you so soon. Find for me at once one Vasco de Guerra, ex-Captain in Ladroño’s Musketeers. Tell him I will hear his tale within the hour, and bring him with you to the Citadel at once,” commands the captain-general. “Under favor, your—your Highness,” returns Oliver, “the—the man you ask for—” “Yes, speak quickly. What are you stammering about?” says the Viceroy, for the sudden demand for the man he has murdered has staggered the painter, tactician though he is—for a moment. “I was about to say, your Highness, that this Vasco de Guerra, who is one of the Six Drunkards of Brussels, now lies stupefied from his potations at the drinking bout.” “What, with that rattle-brain artist Floris!” says Alva; then he suddenly remarks in tones that send a tremor through the frame of Oliver: “And that drunkard thought I would reinstate him in his rank in the army! Some communication he would make to me to-day—something upon which the safety of the realm perhaps depended—something that brought me to Antwerp four hours ahead of my time! Take word to the captain of the provost guard to arrest De Guerra at once. I will speak with him in prison when he recovers his senses—this fool, this drunkard, this wine-bibber. And yet—I wonder what he had to tell me? Forward, gentlemen!” And the Duke rides on, leaving the painter standing almost as breathless as the corpse inside the Painted Inn; for Oliver knows the hand of death has been almost as near to him as to the dead, and mutters, as he rejoins Guy; “Ehu! truly the lion’s jaws had nearly closed!” CHAPTER VII. LOVE—BY A COUP DE MAIN. “Yes, just in time,” whispers the Englishman, drawing a long breath also. Then he takes a hasty look at the tall Dutch clock ticking lazily away in the wine room. Noting this the painter laughs. “The sight of the father makes you impatient for the daughter, eh? But you’ve another half an hour to wait, my impulsive gallant. Besides, I haven’t eaten to-day. The provost marshal must wait until I get a bite. Join me in—in my dinner.” So giving order to an alert serving man, the two sit down to a very hasty, yet comfortable meal, seasoned by peace and contentment, for these young men are so accustomed to danger that any little breathing spell in their struggle with sudden death seems to them a calm, quiet and contented time.