Then Martin was called forward, and looked hard at me with his sinister eyes. An interpreter explained the burgomaster’s questions.
“Witness, you state you know the man Gallagher. Is this he?”
“Now I look at him—yes; but I did not know him before with his beard.”
“Is he a sailor in the service of the English Government?”
“He is; and no friend to the Irish people, for whom the Dutch republic is fighting. More, by tokens, your honour,” added Martin through the interpreter, “now I know him, I know who it was who last night carried away a certain Irish lady under my protection while on her way to the Convent of the Carmelite Nuns.”
“What do you say to that?” said the burgomaster to me, with a look of horror, for he was a stout Catholic.
“I don’t deny it,” said I, curtly; “nor do I deny that this blackguard, instead of trying to defend the lady, tumbled all of a heap with fright off the carriage-box on to the road when I accosted him.”
The interpreter smiled as he translated this, and Martin looked round not too well pleased.
“Where is the lady?” demanded the burgomaster.
“That is my affair,” said I. “She was carried away from her home by this man against her will. She was rescued from him by me with her own good will, and is now safe.”