“The rack?” he whispered. Martin nodded, and answered beneath his breath,
“They may all of them be on it yet. You let the man in the boat escape, and that man was the Spanish spy, Ramiro; I am sure of it. If they don’t know they can’t tell, and though we know we shan’t tell; we shall die first, master.”
Now Foy trembled and leaned against the wall. “What would betray us?” he asked.
“Who knows, master? A woman’s torment, a man’s—” and he put a strange meaning into his voice, “a man’s—jealousy, or pride, or vengeance. Oh! bridle your tongue and trust no one, no, not your father or mother, or sweetheart, or—” and again that strange meaning came into Martin’s voice, “or brother.”
“Or you?” queried Foy, looking up.
“I am not sure. Yes, I think you may trust me, though there is no knowing how the rack might change a man’s mind.”
“If all this be so,” said Foy, with a flush of sudden passion, “I have said too much already.”
“A great deal too much, master. If I could have managed it I should have dropped the sword Silence on your toe long before. But I couldn’t, for the Heer Adrian was watching me, and I had to wait till he closed his eyes, which he did to hear the better without seeming to listen.”
“You are unjust to Adrian, Martin, as you always have been, and I am angry with you. Say, what is to be done now?”
“Now, master,” replied Martin cheerfully, “you must forget the teaching of the Pastor Arentz, and tell a lie. You must take up your tale where you left it off, and say that we made a map of the hiding-place, but that—I—being a fool—managed to drop it while we were lighting the fuses, so that it was blown away with the ship. I will tell the same story.”