“Yes, sir.”
“Thank you, Count, you can go; there is nothing more to do. We will ride for Delft to-night.”
“Sir,” said the secretary, “there are two men in the courtyard who wish to see you.”
“Are they known?”
“Oh yes, perfectly. One is Foy van Goorl, who went through the siege of Haarlem and escaped, the son of the worthy burgher, Dirk van Goorl, whom they did to death yonder in the Gevangenhuis; and the other a Friesland giant of a man called Red Martin, his servant, of whose feats of arms you may have heard. The two of them held a shot tower in this town against forty or fifty Spaniards, and killed I don’t know how many.”
The Prince nodded. “I know. This Red Martin is a Goliath, a brave fellow. What do they want?”
“I am not sure,” said the secretary with a smile, “but they have brought a herring-cart here, the Frisian in the shafts for a horse, and the Heer van Goorl pushing behind. They say that it is laden with ammunition for the service of their country.”
“Then why do they not take it to the Burgomaster, or somebody in authority?”
“I don’t know, but they declare that they will only deliver it to you in person.”
“You are sure of your men, Count? You know,” he added, with a smile, “I have to be careful.”