“And whom,” she said, pointing to the figure covered with a cloak, “do you bring with you?”
“Adrian, mother, who is dying.”
“Then, son Foy, take him hence; alive, dying, or dead, I have done with——” Here her eyes fell upon Red Martin and the man he held, “Martin the Frisian,” she muttered, “but who——”
Martin heard, and by way of answer lifted up his prisoner so that the fading light from the balcony windows fell full upon his face.
“What!” she cried. “Juan de Montalvo as well as his son Adrian, and in this room——” Then she checked herself and added, “Foy, tell me your story.”
In few words and brief he told it, or so much as she need know to understand. His last words were: “Mother, be merciful to Adrian; from the first he meant no ill; he saved all our lives, and he lies dying by that man’s dagger.”
“Lift him up,” she said.
So they lifted him up, and Adrian, who, since the knife pierced him had uttered no word, spoke for the first and last time, muttering hoarsely:
“Mother, take back your words and forgive me—before I die.”
Now the sorrow-frozen heart of Lysbeth melted, and she bent over him and said, speaking so that all might hear: