Then as Guy is wrapping the cloak about her, each touch a caress, she adds significantly; “I shall spend a month or two in Brussels, but if Major Guido Amati de Medina asks for leave from the Middelburg garrison, he will doubtless get it. Though don’t, for sight of me, neglect the duties of your post. Remember, my Guido, that every step you take in the army brings you nearer to the church door where a bride awaits you—whom you have made forget she is the daughter of a Viceroy!” “Penalty!” mutters Guy, and takes this kiss very solemnly, for already the murmur of the approaching crowd tells of the coming father. At this the young lady says, with a delicious moue: “How doleful! One would think you an unsuccessful suitor! But your message by Oliver spoke of danger,” and there is a tremor in her voice. “Yes, I must have the word of the night to pass the sentries. I must leave this evening.” “Of course to be in Middelburg when your commission arrives. I have thought of that and brought it with me.” With this she hands him a little paper. It reads: THE WORD IS “SANTA CRUZ.” COUNTERSIGN “DON FREDRICO.” As he glances at this, she smiles in his face: “I’ve half a mind not to give it to you—not to let you go. What brought my rash young officer to Antwerp without leave?” “You.” “Oh!” “And for you I’d come again a thousand times. I was going to the Drowned Lands duck shooting, when, by the blessing of God, I saved you from the Beggars of the Sea, my own—my prize.” And knowing that every chance of this earth is against his wearing as his bride this sweetheart he has won, Guy’s face is drawn and contorted with the agony of a parting that is to him like death. Sadness is catching as well as love, and the girl gets to sighing and sobbing under his farewells that are so solemn—though she can’t guess why. But Oliver, with rattling door-latch, cries: “The Countess de Pariza is already in the carriage. Quick!” Then Guy, seeing his time has come, though his sweetheart would linger longer, and begins to cling to him with little sighs of love, hurriedly assists her to the carriage and puts her in. Half turning round, his affianced holds up her white finger to him. Upon it glistens the ring of his love. The postilions crack their whips, the state vehicle flies through the arch, and all that he has to remind him of the woman who was but now in his arms, is the memory of her kisses, her ruby ring upon his finger, and a little document that bears the talisman that will make him safe from her father’s sentries at the gates. CHAPTER VIII. “THE UNGAINABLE!—BUT I’LL GAIN HER!” “Look,” says the painter, leading the way to a window opening on the street. And Guy, from the curtains of Bodé Volcker’s house, sees the man of the death’s face, before whom the crowd cower and tremble, bow to his saddle-bow before the coach of his daughter, his face illuminated by the proud eyes of father’s love.