“About three days,” says a Gueux captain. “But what does that matter to you, who are to die in three minutes?” At this Paciotto, smiting his hands together and his eyes flashing with anger even above their despair, utters these astounding words: “My God! Sacrificed. Holy Virgin! Killed for my secret!” And suddenly whispers to Guy: “You are the First of the English?” “Yes.” “Ask the Dutch officers that I may have ten minutes in which to make my peace with God, alone with you, who, from the rosary you wear upon your neck, must be of my faith.” This appeal is answered by Van Tresslong with a surly “Yes!” Whereupon Paciotto, his hands even now bound with the ligatures of execution, is thrust into a little adjoining room from which there is no escape, and into which, moved by the Italian’s pleading eyes, and, perchance, prompted by some latent curiosity, Chester follows him. “Close the door,” the Italian whispers. Then he bursts out still under his breath: “You are the only one who has been my friend in this my last hour on earth. Behold my reward! I can give you a fighting chance to become one of the magnates of this earth.” “How?” But the Italian scarcely answers this, muttering: “Sacrificed! The shadow of death is over me—put there by him of Alva, who never spares what it is his interest to destroy. This town threatened—for three days! He knew of this outbreak of the Gueux—that Flushing would be a place of extreme danger, and sent me here ostensibly to complete the fortifications, but really that his secret should pass away—with my life. For I am the only man in the Netherlands who knows it.” Then he breaks out suddenly, whispering hoarsely: “You, I am told, are one who cares as nothing for his life. Would you, for enormous wealth, avenge me of my enemy, though at a desperate risk?” “For enormous wealth I would risk my life—nay, almost my soul,” gasps Guy, whose great thought, since he has won the love of Viceroy’s daughter, has been to gain station, power and gold enough to give her Viceroy’s state and pomp. “Then, First of the English, you are the man fitted for my post-mortem reckoning with Alva. The man who dared to visit Antwerp; I remember you there—looking straight in the Viceroy’s face—his proclamation for your head posted on the wall above you. You are the man to give me vengeance. Listen to the secret of Alva’s statue.” “Alva’s statue!” cries Guy, recollection of Oliver’s words coming to him. “Hush! Don’t interrupt me. My time is very short. This great statue the Duke has erected to his honor is partly for another purpose! To protect the treasure he has gathered from his tenth penny tax, that he means to transport to Spain for his own use, honor and profit. The pedestal—” “Ah, I remember. The pedestal of unusual size—it contains the booty of the Netherlands,” whispers Chester. “Bah! No, Alva is too astute for that. The statue and its pedestal contain nothing.” “Nothing?”