“Why, my lodger, the painter, Antony Oliver. He came in from Brussels this morning. He is as eager to see you as you are to see him.”
But the last of this speech is lost upon the Englishman, who has darted up two flights of stairs to the top of the house, where, under the tiled gables, amid the swallows’ nests, is the lodging room and atelier of Antonius Oliver (familiarly called Antony), geographical map maker, herald and pursevant, and at times assistant secretary to Alva, Viceroy of the Netherlands. This gentleman’s salary is not great; his position, while partially confidential, is not very exalted; though it often brings him into direct contact with the great Duke himself. For Oliver has striven, with all his might and main to gain the confidence of his master.
He is a native of Mons, near the French border of the Netherlands, and is partly of Flemish and partly of Gallic extraction. At present he is apparently washing the dust of travel from his face, as he makes his appearance minus his cloak and doublet, towel in hand, and answers the Englishman’s smart knock on his door.
“Ah!” he cries, his face full of sunny smile, “I am delighted to see you, my friend, my Guido!”
“And so am I, Antony, my boy,” answers Chester, with hearty outstretched hand. For a few weeks of supreme mutual danger have made these two men as good comrades as years of ordinary friendship.
“So glad to see you,” goes on the Fleming, “and yet sorry.” He whispers: “You know of the reward for you?”
“Yes, I’ve seen it,” answers Guy, shortly.
“Ah! at your inn?”
“No, in the guard-room of the Citadel.” [[51]]
“Mon Dieu! You have been arrested and examined,” the painter gasps, anxiously.