residence at the Gravenhof in the main square, and thence to dispense
justice throughout that land of dykes in his master's princely name.
This justice the German captain dispensed with merciless rigour,
conceiving that to be the proper way to uproot rebellious tendencies. It
was inevitable that he should follow such a course, impelled to it by a
remorseless cruelty in his nature, of which the Duke his master had seen
no hint, else he might have thought twice before making him Governor
of Zeeland, for Charles--despite his rigour when treachery was to be
punished--was a just and humane prince.

Now, amongst those arrested and flung into Middelburg gaol as a result
of Rhynsault's ruthless perquisitions and inquisitions was a wealthy
young burgher named Philip Danvelt. His arrest was occasioned by a
letter signed "Philip Danvelt" found in the house of a marked rebel
who had been first tortured and then hanged. The letter, of a date
immediately preceding the late rising, promised assistance in the shape
of arms and money.

Brought before Rhynsault for examination, in a cheerless hall of the
Gravenhof, Danvelt's defence was a denial upon oath that he had ever
taken or offered to take any part in the rebellion. Told of the letter
found, and of the date it bore, he laughed. That letter made everything
very simple and clear. At the date it bore he had been away at Flushing
marrying a wife, whom he had since brought thence to Middelburg. It was
ludicrous, he urged, to suppose that in such a season--of all seasons
in a man's life--he should have been concerned with rebellion or
correspondence with rebels, and, urging this, he laughed again.

Now, the German captain did not like burghers who laughed in his
presence. It argued a lack of proper awe for the dignity of his
office and the importance of his person. From his high seat at the
Judgment-board, flanked by clerks and hedged about by men-at-arms, he
scowled upon the flaxen-haired, fresh-complexioned young burgher who
bore himself so very easily. He was a big, handsome man, this Rhynsault,
of perhaps some thirty years of age. His thick hair was of a reddish
brown, and his beardless face was cast in bold lines and tanned by
exposure to the colour of mahogany, save where the pale line of a scar
crossed his left cheek.

"Yet, I tell you, the letter bears your signature," he grumbled sourly.

"My name, perhaps," smiled the amiable Danvelt, "but assuredly not my
signature."