“And how was he—oh! and all the rest of them?”
“He was well.”
“And free and in no danger?”
“And free, but I cannot say in no danger. We are all of us in danger nowadays, cousin,” replied Foy in the same quiet voice.
“Oh! thank God for that,” said Elsa.
“Little enough to thank God for,” muttered Martin, who had entered the room and was standing behind Foy looking like a giant at a show. Elsa had turned her face away, so Foy struck backwards with all his force, hitting Martin in the pit of the stomach with the point of his elbow. Martin doubled himself up, recoiled a step and took the hint.
“Well, son, what news?” said Dirk, speaking for the first time.
“News!” answered Foy, escaping joyfully from this treacherous ground. “Oh! lots of it. Look here,” and plunging his hands into his pockets he produced first the half of the broken dagger and secondly a long skinny finger of unwholesome hue with a gold ring on it.
“Bah!” said Adrian. “Take that horrid thing away.”
“Oh! I beg your pardon,” answered Foy, shuffling the finger back into his pocket, “you don’t mind the dagger, do you? No? Well, then, mother, that mail shirt of yours is the best that was ever made; this knife broke on it like a carrot, though, by the way, it’s uncommonly sticky wear when you haven’t changed it for three days, and I shall be glad enough to get it off.”