“Friend, you have entered on a dangerous quarrel on behalf of me and mine, and if you live through it you will have earned high pay.”
Then he went to the table, and, taking writing materials, he wrote as follows: “To the Heer Dirk van Goorl and his heirs, the executors of my will, and the holders of my fortune, which is to be used as God shall show them. This is to certify that in payment of this night’s work Martin, called the Red, the servant of the said Dirk van Goorl, or those heirs whom he may appoint, is entitled to a sum of five thousand florins, and I constitute such sum a first charge upon my estate, to whatever purpose they may put it in their discretion.” This document he dated, signed, and caused the pilot Hans to sign also as a witness. Then he gave it to Martin, who thanked him by touching his forehead, remarking at the same time—
“After all, fighting is not a bad trade if you only stick to it long enough. Five thousand florins! I never thought to earn so much.”
“You haven’t got it yet,” interrupted Foy. “And now, what are you going to do with that paper?”
Martin reflected. “Coat?” he said, “no, a man takes off his coat if it is hot, and it might be left behind. Boots?—no, that would wear it out, especially if they got wet. Jersey?—sewn next the skin, no, same reason. Ah! I have it,” and, drawing out the great sword Silence, he took the point of his knife and began to turn a little silver screw in the hilt, one of many with which the handle of walrus ivory was fastened to its steel core. The screw came out, and he touched a spring, whereon one quarter of the ivory casing fell away, revealing a considerable hollow in the hilt, for, although Martin grasped it with one hand, the sword was made to be held by two.
“What is that hole for?” asked Foy.
“The executioner’s drug,” replied Martin, “which makes a man happy while he does his business with him, that is, if he can pay the fee. He offered his dose to me, I remember, before—” Here Martin stopped, and, having rolled up the parchment, hid it in the hollow.
“You might lose your sword,” suggested Foy.
“Yes, master, when I lose my life and exchange the hope of florins for a golden crown,” replied Martin with a grin. “Till then I do not intend to part with Silence.”
Meanwhile Hendrik Brant had been whispering to the quiet man at the table, who now rose and said: