He had little to do now, and no princess to draw, so he set himself resolutely to read that deed of Floris Brandt, from which he had hitherto been driven by the abominably bad writing. He mastered it, and saw at once that the loan on this land must have been paid over and over again by the rents, and that Ghysbrecht was keeping Peter Brandt out of his own.
“Fool! not to have read this before,” he cried. He hired a horse and rode down to the nearest port. A vessel was to sail for Amsterdam in four days.
He took a passage; and paid a small sum to secure it.
“The land is too full of cut-throats for me,” said he; “and 'tis lovely fair weather for the sea. Our Dutch skippers are not shipwrecked like these bungling Italians.”
When he returned home there sat his old landlady with her eyes sparkling.
“You are in luck, my young master,” said she. “All the fish run to your net this day methinks. See what a lackey hath brought to our house! This bill and this bag.”
Gerard broke the seals, and found it full of silver crowns. The letter contained a mere slip of paper with this line, cut out of some MS.:—“La lingua non ha osso, ma fa rompere il dosso.”
“Fear me not!” said Gerard aloud. “I'll keep mine between my teeth.”
“What is that?”
“Oh, nothing. Am I not happy, dame? I am going back to my sweetheart with money in one pocket, and land in the other.” And he fell to dancing round her.