These being satisfactory, taking advantage of the tide, late on a bright May day, the setting sun gilding the beautiful tower of the church of Our Dear Lady, Chester drops anchor off the city front, and again passing satisfactorily the custom officials, takes his consignment papers and charter to the house of Jacobszoon & Olins. “Hoezee! You escaped those plundering Gueux, my worthy Captain Blanco,” cries the senior partner Jacobszoon, a florid, paunchy individual. Jan Olins, a man of clean cut face and precise manner, remarks: “You must have handled your vessel very well. If the government doesn’t put down these Dutch freebooters, good bye to the commerce of Antwerp.” Then the two invite their successful captain to supper. “Come with us,” says Jacobszoon, “it will be my night away from home. We’ll have a friendly bottle at the Painted Inn.” But Guy is not anxious to visit the Painted Inn, being exceedingly eager to put eyes upon Antony Oliver, and excuses himself on the plea that he must return to his vessel. “Ah, you’ll sleep on board?” says the junior partner. “Probably,” replies the captain, “until I have my vessel alongside the quay.” “Well, the Tower of the Angels is a very good inn not far from here,” suggests Jacobszoon. “It will also be convenient to your ship.” “Thank you, I’ll remember it,” and getting away from the two gentlemen who seem to be greatly delighted at the arrival of their ship and are inclined to be effusive in their hospitality, Chester in the course of a few minutes’ stroll up Wool street, finds himself before the painted pole of the barber surgeon. The night is dark, there is no lamp in the hall, and he is not recognized by the little blood-letter, who lets him in. So going up the three flights of stairs, he finds with unexpected joy that Antony Oliver opens the door in answer to his knock. To his further delight Guy is himself unrecognized even by the painter’s sharp eyes. Antony has been working at his altar piece. The setting sun comes in upon and halos the glorious face and divine eyes of Hermoine de Alva. With lover’s rapture the Englishman strides toward the canvas. To Oliver’s quick and anxious remark: “What is your business?” he answers nothing, being rapt in contemplation of his sweetheart! “Your business, señor?” “Oh—ah! yes! Have you had any pigeon pie lately?” whispers Chester, waking up. “Morbleu!” ejaculates the Flemish artist. “Captain—no Major Guido Amati!” “Not this trip,” says the other shortly, closing the door, “but one Andrea Blanco, captain of the Spanish galleon Esperanza, with hides, tallow and Spanish wine, consigned to Jacobszoon & Olins, and discharging her cargo at the English quay.” “But still, my Guido,” whispers the painter, and the impulsive Franco-Fleming throws his arms round Guy’s neck and imprints two tender kisses, one on each cheek. “Is your infernal boy here?” mutters the Englishman savagely, who does not care for this kind of salute.