“You’re in good company, I see, Amati,” says the little ensign. “Introduce me to the honor of the acquaintance of the Duke’s under-secretary.” And this being done the young Spaniard says: “Where are you going?” “To the provost marshal’s office.” “Then I’ll go with you,” remarks De Busaco. “I’ve business there myself. I wish to get leave to remain in the town this evening. A little Flemish girl, you understand!” he strokes his mustachios knowingly. As they walk along the street together, De Busaco, who apparently has joined them for this purpose, goes to questioning and pumping Oliver as to what prospect there is of a near pay-day for the garrison of Antwerp; if he knows anything of the Duke’s plans; how the tenth penny tax comes on, etc., etc., his losses at the drinking bout having apparently made him anxious on this subject. Guy, however, pays little heed to this. Eye and ear are intent to discover if he is followed by the Zeeland trader. The Shoemarket is so well peopled that this is difficult to determine, but after they have walked from it to Kammer street, past the Inn of the Red Lion, and turned into the network of narrow alleys that lead to the main watergate of the town, where the provost marshal’s office is situated, the crowd grows less and Chester, turning slightly, catches sight of the man whom he fears. This personage dogs them straight to the city gate, but stands gaping in astonishment as Guy and Oliver, accompanied by the young Spanish officer, enter the office of Alva’s provost marshal, the very door of which is placarded with the reward of three thousand Carolus guilders. “De Busaco,” remarks the Englishman, pausing at the door, “do you see that man in South Zeeland dress?” “Yes.” “Do you want something that will save you anxiety about your back pay?” “Santos! yes!” “Then take a couple of men and get him. He lives in the disaffected provinces at Flushing. I think the Council of Troubles are looking for him.” “A reward!” cries the little Spaniard, then flying into the guard room and unheeding military etiquette he calls out, “Some men with me, quick—there’s money in it!” Two Spanish soldiers, springing up at his bidding from the crowd lounging about the guard-room, he starts with these hurriedly for the street, and is soon in hot pursuit of the trader from South Zeeland, crying: “Heretico fugitivo!” and other words of rage and fury which make that gentleman quicken his steps to so good a purpose that apparently knowing the town well, he dodges into some of the blind alleys in this densely crowded portion of the city, and escapes from the little Spaniard, whose jack boots are not conducive to extreme fleetness of foot. “I couldn’t catch him,” remarks De Busaco, five minutes afterward, returning breathless, “but I’ll keep my eye open for him.”