him through with a pike in
mercy, his head falls forward. Oh! God, if it be Thy will, grant to us a
sign."

Some strange breath passed through that upper chamber, a cold breath
which blew upon the brows of the worshippers and stirred their hair,
bringing with it a sense of the presence of Andreas Jansen, the martyr.
Then, there upon the wall opposite to the window, at the very spot where
their brother and companion, Andreas, saint and martyr, was wont to
kneel, appeared the sign, or what they took to be a sign. Yes, there
upon the whitewashed wall, reflected, mayhap, from the fires below, and
showing clearly in the darkened room, shone the vision of a fiery cross.
For a second it was seen. Then it was gone, but to every soul in
this room the vision of that cross had brought its message; to each a
separate message, an individual inspiration, for in the light of it they
read strange lessons of life and death. The cross vanished and there was
silence.

"Brethren," said the voice of Arentz, speaking in the darkness, "you
have seen. Through the fire and through the shadow, follow the Cross and
fear not."

The service was over, and below in the emptied market-place the
executioners collected the poor calcined fragments of the martyrs to
cast them with contumely and filthy jests into the darkling waters of
the river. Now, one by one and two by two, the worshippers slipped away
through some hidden door opening on an alley. Let us look at three of
their number as they crept through bye streets back to a house on the
Bree Straat with which we are acquainted, two of them walking in front
and one behind.

The pair were Dirk van Goorl and his son Foy--there was no mistaking
their relationship. Save that he had grown somewhat portly and
thoughtful, Dirk was the Dirk of five and twenty years ago, thickset,
grey-eyed, bearded, a handsome man according to the Dutch standard,
whose massive, kindly countenance betrayed the massive, kindly mind
within. Very like him was his son Foy, only his eyes were blue instead
of grey, and his hair was yellow. Though they seemed sad enough just
now, these were merry and pleasant eyes, and the round, the somewhat
childlike face was merry also, the face of a person who looked upon the
bright side of things.

There was nothing remarkable or distinguished about Foy's appearance,
but from it the observer, who met him for the first time, received an
impression of energy, honesty, and good-nature.