"Well, mynheer! since you call upon me and on my knowledge of this city, I can give you answer forthwith. Yes! I do know a man, now in Haarlem, who hath no thought of commerce or affairs, who possesses that spirit of chivalry which you say is dead among the men of Holland. He would stand up boldly before you, hat in hand and say to you: 'Mynheer, I am ready to do you service, and by God do I swear that I will bring your daughter back to you, safe and in good health!' I know such a man, mynheer!" "Bah! you talk at random, my good Hals!" said Beresteyn with a shrug of the shoulders. "May I not present him to you, mynheer?" "Present him? Whom?... What nonsense is this?" asked the old man, more dazed and bewildered than before by the artist's voluble talk. "Whom do you wish to present to me?" "The man who I firmly believe would out of pure chivalry and the sheer love of adventure do more toward bringing the jongejuffrouw speedily back to you than all the burgomaster's levies of guards and punitive expeditions." "You don't mean that, Hals?--'twere a cruel jest to raise without due cause the hopes of a grief-stricken old man." "'Tis no jest, mynheer!" said the artist, "there sits the man!" And with a theatrical gesture--for Mynheer Hals had drunk some very good wine after having worked at high pressure all day, and his excitement had gained the better of him--he pointed to Diogenes, who had heard every word spoken by his friend, and at this dénouement burst into a long, delighted, ringing laugh. "Ye gods!" he exclaimed, "your Olympian sense of humour is even greater than your might." At an urgent appeal from Hals he rose and, hat in hand, did indeed approach Mynheer Beresteyn, looking every inch of him a perfect embodiment of that spirit of adventure which was threatening to be wafted away from these too prosperous shores. His tall figure looked of heroic proportions in this low room and by contrast with the small, somewhat obese burghers who still sat close to Cornelius, having listened in silence to the latter's colloquy with the artist. His bright eyes twinkled, his moustache bristled, his lips quivered with the enjoyment of the situation. The grace and elegance of his movements, born of conscious strength, added dignity to his whole personality. "My friend hath name Diogenes," said Frans Hals, whose romantic disposition revelled in this presentation, "but there's little of the philosopher about him. He is a man of action, an invincible swordsman, a----" "Dondersteen, my good Hals!" ejaculated Diogenes gaily, "you'll shame me before these gentlemen." "There's naught to be ashamed of, sir, in the eulogy of a friend," said Cornelius Beresteyn with quiet dignity, "and 'tis a pleasure to an old man like me to look on one so well favoured as yourself. Ah, sir! 'tis but sorrow that I shall know in future.... My daughter ... you have heard...?" "I know the trouble that weighs on your soul, mynheer," replied Diogenes simply.