“What was your business with her?”
“I never expected to land on Dutch shores, and so had no special business; but finding myself here, I sought her out.”
This all seemed fair enough; and the burgomaster, who was an honest man and blessed with true Dutch stolidity, after consulting with his clerk and colleague, informed me that inquiries would be made, and that meanwhile I should remain in custody.
To my request to be allowed to send a letter to Biddy he returned a flat and suspicious refusal. Nor, till my case stood clearer, would he order the removal of the irons. So for the next twenty-four hours I lay in a damp cell, with black bread and water to support my spirits, and the thought of my little mistress to carry me through the weary hours.
About noon next day I was again summoned to the burgomaster’s court, where, among the curious crowd assembled to see the supposed English spy, I recognised not only the Dutch skipper, but Martin. Biddy was not there.
The burgomaster wore an air of sternness and self-importance which boded no good.
“Captain Koop,” said he to the skipper, “identify the prisoner.”
“Most worshipful,” replied the sailor, “this is the man we picked up, who said he was a Frenchman, wrecked in the French ship Zèbre.”
“Was that true?” said the judge to me.
“Mynheer, I told you my tale yesterday. I am no Frenchman.”