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Updated: May 5, 2025
"Pray," said the stranger, "has John Foy come home from sea? He went a long voyage; he is my kinsman. If I could see him, he could give me some account of Mrs. Rugg." "Sir," said Mrs. Croft, "I never heard of John Foy. Where did he live?" "Just above here, in Orange-Tree Lane." "There is no such place in this neighbourhood." "What do you tell me! Are the streets gone?
On one side of fit were placed Foy and Elsa, who were also silent for a very different reason, while opposite to them was Adrian, who watched Elsa with an anxious and inquiring eye.
Froude has written twelve volumes, and he has made himself a name in writing them, but he has not written, in the pregnant phrase so aptly quoted by the Duke of Aumale, 'un livre de bonne foy."* * The Duke was not, as Freeman implies that he was, referring to Froude.
Well, doubtless this must be all part of her vision, and as in dream or out of it Foy had a perfect right to kiss her if he chose, she saw no reason to interfere. Now she seemed to hear a familiar voice, that of Red Martin, asking someone how long it would take them to make Haarlem with this wind, to which another voice answered, "About three-quarters of an hour."
In the sitting-room, speaking more slowly and with greater caution, Foy continued the story of their adventures. When he came to the tale of how the ship Swallow was blown up with all the Spanish boarders, Elsa clasped her hands, saying, "Horrible! Horrible! Think of the poor creatures hurled thus into eternity."
As a matter of fact, if you want to know the truth, I believe that the old witch took notes for him to some young lady, and that Hague Simon supplied him with rats for his hawks." "Yes, Foy, that may be so, but how about his talk of the pastor? It makes me suspicious, son.
"Foy van Goorl and Martin, his father's servant, travelling to The Hague with specimens of brassware, consigned to the correspondents of our firm," answered Foy, indifferently. "You are very glib," sneered the sandy-whiskered man; "what is the mule laden with? It may be Bibles for all I know." "Nothing half so valuable, master," replied Foy; "it is a church chandelier in pieces."
"Hark!" said Lysbeth suddenly, "I hear my son's footsteps at the door. It seems, Elsa, that, after all, the ears of a mother are quicker than those of a lover." But Elsa never heard her, for now now at length, she was wrapped in the arms of Foy; the same Foy, but grown older and with a long pale scar across his forehead.
Martin fired and another man fell. Then Foy fired again and missed, but Martin's next bolt struck the last soldier through the arm and pinned him to the timber of the broken gate. After this they could shoot no more, for the Spaniards were beneath them. "To the doorway," said Martin, "and remember what I told you. Away with the bows, cold steel must do the rest."
"I daresay it looks strange, sir," said Foy, hotly, the colour rising to the roots of his fair hair, "but when you have heard our story I am not sure that you will laugh at us."
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