"Oh, the doctor!" cried Martha contemptuously. "He has wasted his brains on weeds and creeping things, until he has none left to understand his fellow-creatures with. He thinks of Sebastian Vliet as he used to be, before his cheeks were bloated and his hands shaky. Then the doctor has lost his money, or as good as lost it, in this mad business, and he wants to make up the loss to my mistress. He thinks Vliet has plenty of it, and hasn't sense to see that money melts like snow in April, when it is in the hands of a drunken gambler. And that is what Vliet is. Every night, when Vermuijden is away, he is toping and playing--and losing, for the men he plays with know all his tricks and more. Then he is rooked by the lord who comes to see him, and by another rascal who fetches and carries for the lord. Vliet's money is going at a great rate. But what does Vliet matter?" "He seems to be of some importance, since he has Mistress Goel's word to marry him, and her father is well pleased it should be so." "And what does that avail against a gentleman who loves her? Every lover I've heard of snapped his fingers at foolish old people, pinked his rival, and rode off with the lady." "Unluckily," thought I, "one needs a purse as well as a rapier for that, and somewhere to ride to." What I said was: "But the lady must consent before even the hero of a ballad can run away with her." "Consent!" repeated Martha. "And what's a lover good for, if he does not save her the trouble of consenting, cut all arguments short by stopping her mouth, and have it out with her parents when the ring is on her finger and the happy blush on her cheek? You may think me a bold hussy to talk so. But I know what I know. And my heart is sore to hear sobbing and praying all last night, and to see the dear angel with swollen eyelids, and a pitiful quiver on her lips this morning. One thing is certain, Sebastian Vliet will never call her wife. If he escapes drunken surfeit, shooting by the men he bullies, the knife of a boozing companion, the Almighty's lightning, I'll put rats-bane in his meat myself." She looked as if she meant it, her face pale, her eyes glowing. "Shall I send Luke to you, sir?" she asked in another voice. Luke had much to tell me, but the sum of it was that my father's displeasure over my visit to Sandtoft and my continuance there was great; and Mr. Butharwick had charged Luke to entreat me to return without delay, the good old man being much alarmed by my father's anger. Neither had heard of my narrow escape from the gallows, as I had forbidden Luke to mention it.