“Perhaps you are right,” answered Martin. “Who knows, there’s a key to every lock, if only it can be found.” Then he set to work upon Foy’s wounds, binding them round with strips of the girl’s garment dipped in water, and when he had done the best he could he clothed him again, even to the chain shirt.
“Are you not hurt yourself?” asked the voice presently.
“A little, nothing to speak of; a few cuts and bruises, that’s all; this bull’s hide turned their swords.”
“Tell me whom you have been fighting,” she said.
So, to while away the time while Foy still lay senseless, Martin told her the story of the attack upon the shot tower, of how they had driven the Spaniards down the ladder, of how they had drenched them with molten lead, and of their last stand in the courtyard when they were forced from the burning building.
“Oh! what a fearful fight—two against so many,” said the voice with a ring of admiration in it.
“Yes,” answered Martin, “it was a good fight—the hottest that ever I was in. For myself I don’t much care, for they’ve paid a price for my carcase. I didn’t tell you, did I, that the mob set on them as they haled us here and pulled four wounded men and those who carried them to bits? Oh! yes, they have paid a price, a very good price for a Frisian boor and a Leyden burgher.”
“God pardon their souls,” murmured the unknown.
“That’s as He likes,” said Martin, “and no affair of mine; I had only to do with their bodies and—” At this moment Foy groaned, sat up and asked for something to drink.
Martin gave him water from the pitcher.