Well might they laugh, they who had known Adrian in his pride and rich attire, for before them, crouching against the wall, was a miserable, bareheaded object, his hair stained with mud and rotten eggs, blood running from his temple where a stone had caught him, his garments a mass of filth and dripping water, one boot gone and his hose burst to tatters. For a while the fugitive bore it, then suddenly, without a word, he drew the sword that still remained to him and rushed at the bestial looking Simon, who skipped away round the table.
“Stop laughing,” he said, “or I will put this through you. I am a desperate man.”
“You look it,” said Simon, but he laughed no more, for the joke had become risky. “What do you want, Heer Adrian?”
“I want food and lodging for so long as I please to stop here. Don’t be afraid, I have money to pay you.”
“I am thinking that you are a dangerous guest,” broke in Meg.
“I am,” replied Adrian; “but I tell you that I shall be more dangerous outside. I was not the only one concerned in that matter of the evidence, and if they get me they will have you too. You understand?”
Meg nodded. She understood perfectly; for those of her trade Leyden was growing a risky habitation.
“We will accommodate you with our best, Mynheer,” she said. “Come upstairs to the Master’s room and put on some of his clothes. They will fit you well; you are much of the same figure.”
Adrian’s breath caught in his throat.
“Is he here?” he asked.