CHAPTER III.
The burgomaster had pressed the nobleman to sit down in the study-chair, while he himself leaned in a half-sitting attitude on the writing-table, listening somewhat impatiently to his distinguished guest.
“Before speaking of more important things,” Herr Matanesse Van Wibisma had begun, “I should like to appeal to you, as a just man, for some punishment for the injury my son has sustained in this city.”
“Speak,” said the burgomaster, and the nobleman now briefly, and with unconcealed indignation, related the story of the attack upon his son at the church.
“I’ll inform the rector of the annoying incident,” replied Van der Werff, “and the culprits will receive their just dues; but pardon me, noble sir, if I ask whether any inquiry has been made concerning the cause of the quarrel?”
Herr Matanesse Van Wibisma looked at the burgomaster in surprise and answered proudly:
“You know my son’s report.”
“Both sides must be fairly heard,” replied Van der Werff calmly. “That has been the custom of the Netherlands from ancient times.”
“My son bears my name and speaks the truth.”
“Our boys are called simply Leendert or Adrian or Gerrit, but they do the same, so I must beg you to send the young gentleman to the examination at the school.”
“By no means,” answered the knight resolutely. “If I had thought the matter belonged to the rector’s department, I should have sought him and not you, Herr Peter. My son has his own tutor, and was not attacked in your school, which in any case he has outgrown, for he is seventeen, but in the public street, whose security it is the burgomaster’s duty to guard.”
“Very well then, make your complaint, take the youth before the judges, summon witnesses and let the law follow its course. But, sir,” continued Van der Werff, softening the impatience in his voice, “were you not young yourself once? Have you entirely forgotten the fights under the citadel? What pleasure will it afford you, if we lock up a few thoughtless lads for two days this sunny weather? The scamps will find something amusing to do indoors, as well as out, and only the parents will be punished.”
The last words were uttered so cordially and pleasantly, that they could not fail to have their effect upon the baron. He was a handsome man, whose refined, agreeable features, of the true Netherland type, expressed anything rather than severity.
“If you speak to me in this tone, we shall come to an agreement more easily,” he answered, smiling. “I will only say this. Had the brawl arisen in sport, or from some boyish quarrel, I wouldn’t have wasted a word on the matter—but that children already venture to assail with jeers and violence those who hold different opinions, ought not to be permitted to pass without reproof. The boys shouted after my son the absurd word—”
“It is certainly an insult,” interrupted Van der Werff, “a very disagreeable name, that our people bestow on the enemies of their liberty.”
The baron rose, angrily confronting the other.
“Who tells you,” he cried, striking his broad breast, padded with silken puffs, “who tells you that we grudge Holland her liberty? We desire, just as earnestly as you, to win it back to the States, but by other, straighter paths than Orange—”
“I cannot test here whether your paths are crooked or straight,” retorted Van der Werff; “but I do know this—they are labyrinths.”
“They will lead to the heart of Philip, our king and yours.”
“Yes, if he only had what we in Holland call a heart,” replied the other, smiling bitterly; but Wibisma threw his head back vehemently, exclaiming reproachfully:
“Sir Burgomaster, you are speaking of the anointed Prince to whom I have sworn fealty.”
“Baron Matanesse,” replied Van der Werff, in a tone of deep earnestness, as he drew himself up to his full height, folded his arms, and looked the nobleman sharply in the eye, “I speak rather of the tyrant, whose bloody council declared all who bore the Netherland name, and you among us, criminals worthy of death; who, through his destroying devil, Alva, burned, beheaded, and hung thousands of honest men, robbed and exiled from the country thousands of others, I speak of the profligate—”
“Enough!” cried the knight, clenching the hilt of his sword. “Who gives you the right—”
“Who gives me the right to speak so bitterly, you would ask?” interrupted Peter Van der Werff, meeting the nobleman’s eyes with a gloomy glance. “Who gives me this right? I need not conceal it. It was bestowed by the silent lips of my valiant father, beheaded for the sake of his faith, by the arbitrary decree, that without form of law, banished my brother and myself from the country—by the Spaniards’ broken vows, the torn charters of this land, the suffering of the poor, ill-treated, worthy people that will perish if we do not save them.”
“You will not save them,” replied Wibisma in a calmer tone. “You will push those tottering on the verge of the abyss completely over the precipice, and go to destruction with them.”
“We are pilots. Perhaps we shall bring deliverance, perhaps we shall go to ruin with those for whom we are ready to die.”
“You say that, and yet a young, blooming wife binds you to life.”
“Baron, you have crossed this threshold as complainant to the burgomaster, not as guest or friend.”
“Quite true, but I came with kind intentions, as monitor to the guiding head of this beautiful, hapless city. You have escaped the storm once, but new and far heavier ones are gathering above your heads.”
“We do not fear them.”
“Not even now?”
“Now, with good reason, far less than ever.”
“Then you don’t know the Prince’s brother—”
“Louis of Nassau was close upon the Spaniards on the 14th, and our cause is doing well—”
“It certainly did not fare ill at first.”
“The messenger, who yesterday evening—”
“Ours came this morning.”
“This morning, you say? And what more—”
“The Prince’s army was defeated and utterly destroyed on Mook Heath. Louis of Nassau himself was slain.”
Van der Werff pressed his fingers firmly on the wood of the writing-table. The fresh color of his cheeks and lips had yielded to a livid pallor, and his mouth quivered painfully as he asked in a low, hollow tone, “Louis dead, really dead?”
“Dead,” replied the baron firmly, though sorrowfully. “We were enemies, but Louis was a noble youth. I mourn him with you.”
“Dead, William’s favorite dead!” murmured the burgomaster as if in a dream. Then, controlling himself by a violent effort, he said, firmly:
“Pardon me, noble sir. Time is flying. I must go to the town-hall.”
“And spite of my message, you will continue to uphold rebellion?”
“Yes, my lord, as surely as I am a Hollander.”
“Do you remember the fate of Haarlem?”
“I remember her citizens’ resistance, and the rescued Alkmaar.”
“Man, man!” cried the baron. “By all that sacred, I implore you to be circumspect.”
“Enough, baron, I must go to the town-hall.”
“No, only this one more word, this one word. I know you upbraid us as ‘Glippers,’ deserters, but as truly as I hope for God’s mercy, you misjudge us. No, Herr Peter, no, I am no traitor! I love this country and this brave, industrious people with the same love as yourself, for its blood flows in my veins also. I signed the compromise. Here I stand, sir. Look at me. Do I look like a Judas? Do I look like a Spaniard? Can you blame me for faithfully keeping the oath I gave the king? When did we of the Netherlands ever trifle with vows? You, the friend of Orange, have just declared that you did not grudge any man the faith to which he clung, and I will not doubt it. Well, I hold firmly to the old church, I am a Catholic and shall remain one. But in this hour I frankly confess, that I hate the inquisition and Alva’s bloody deeds as much as you do. They have as little connection with our religion as iconoclasm had with yours Like you, I love the freedom of our home. To win it back is my endeavor, as well as yours. But how can a little handful like us ever succeed in finally resisting the most powerful kingdom in the world? Though we conquer once, twice, thrice, two stronger armies will follow each defeated one. We shall accomplish nothing by force, but may do much by wise concession and prudent deeds. Philip’s coffers are empty; he needs his armies too in other countries. Well then, let us profit by his difficulties, and force him to ratify some lost liberty for every revolted city that returns to him. Let us buy from his hands, with what remains of our old wealth, the rights he has wrested from us while fighting against the rebels. You will find open hands with me and those who share my opinions. Your voice weighs heavily in the council of this city. You are the friend of Orange, and if you could induce him—”
“To do what, noble sir?”
“To enter into an alliance with us. We know that those in Madrid understand how to estimate his importance and fear him. Let us stipulate, as the first condition, a full pardon for him and his faithful followers. King Philip, I know, will receive him into favor again—”
“In his arms to strangle him,” replied the burgomaster resolutely. “Have you forgotten the false promises of pardon made in former times, the fate of Egmont and Horn, the noble Montigney and other lords? They ventured it and entered the tiger’s den. What we buy to-day will surely be taken from us tomorrow, for what oath would be sacred to Philip? I am no statesman, but I know this—if he would restore all our liberties, he will never grant the one thing, without which life is valueless.”
“What is that, Herr Peter?”
“The privilege of believing according to the dictates of our hearts. You mean fairly, noble sir;—but you trust the Spaniard, we do not; if we did, we should be deceived children. You have nothing to fear for your religion, we everything; you believe that the number of troops and power of gold will turn the scales in our conflict, we comfort ourselves with the hope, that God will give victory to the good cause of a brave people, ready to suffer a thousand deaths for liberty. This is my opinion, and I shall defend it in the town-hall.”
“No, Meister Peter, no! You cannot, ought not.”
“What I can do is little, what I ought to do is written within, and I shall act accordingly.”
“And thus obey the sorrowing heart rather than the prudent head, and be able to give naught save evil counsel. Consider, man, Orange’s last army was destroyed on Mock Heath.”
“True, my lord, and for that very reason we will not use the moments for words, but deeds.”
“I’ll take the hint myself, Herr Van der Werf, for many friends of the king still dwell in Leyden, who must be taught not to follow you blindly to the shambles.”
At these words Van der Werff retreated from the nobleman, clenched his moustache firmly in his right hand, and raising his deep voice to a louder tone, said coldly and imperiously:
“Then, as guardian of the safety of this city, I command you to quit Leyden instantly. If you are found within these walls after noon to-morrow, I will have you taken across the frontiers by the city-guard.”
The baron withdrew without any form of leave-taking.
As soon as the door had closed behind him, Van der Werff, threw himself into his arm-chair and covered his face with his hands. When he again sat erect, two large tear-drops sparkled on the paper which had lain under his fingers. Smiling bitterly, he wiped them from the page with the back of his hand.
“Dead, dead,” he murmured, and the image of the gallant youth, the clever mediator, the favorite of William of Orange, rose before his mind—he asked himself how this fresh stroke of fate would affect the Prince, whom he revered as the providence of the country, admired and loved as the wisest, most unselfish of men.
William’s affliction grieved him as sorely as if it had fallen upon himself, and the blow that had struck the cause of freedom was a heavy one, perhaps never to be overcome.
Yet he only granted himself a short time to indulge in grief, for the point in question now was to summon all the nation’s strength to repair what was lost, avert by vigorous acts the serious consequences which threatened to follow Louis’s defeat, and devise fresh means to carry on the war.
He paced up and down the room with frowning brow, inventing measures and pondering over plans. His wife had opened the door, and now remained standing on the threshold, but he did not notice her until she called his name and advanced towards him.
In her hand she held part of the flowers the boy had brought, another portion adorned her bosom.
“Take it,” she said, offering him the bouquet. “Adrian, dear boy, gathered them, and you surely know what they mean.”
He willingly took the messengers of spring, raised them to his face, drew Maria to his breast, pressed a long kiss upon her brow, and then said gloomily:
“So this is the celebration of the first anniversary of our wedding-day. Poor wife! The Glipper was not so far wrong; perhaps it would have been wiser and better for me not to bind your fate to mine.”
“How can such thoughts enter your mind, Peter!” she exclaimed reproachfully.
“Louis of Nassau has fallen,” he murmured in a hollow tone, “his army is scattered.”
“Oh-oh!” cried Maria, clasping her hands in horror, but he continued:
“It was our last body of troops. The coffers are empty, and where we are to obtain new means, and what will happen now—this, this—Leave me, Maria, I beg you. If we don’t profit by the time now, if we don’t find the right paths now, we shall not, cannot prosper.”
With these words he threw the bouquet on the table, hastily seized a paper, looked into it, and, without glancing at her, waved his right hand.
The young wife’s heart had been full, wide open, when she entered the room. She had expected so much that was beautiful from this hour, and now stood alone in the apartment he still shared with her. Her arms had fallen by her side; helpless, mortified, wounded, she gazed at him in silence.
Maria had grown up amid the battle for freedom, and knew how to estimate the grave importance of the tidings her husband had received. During his wooing he had told her that, by his side, she must expect a life full of anxiety and peril, yet she had joyously gone to the altar with the brave champion of the good cause, which had been her father’s, for she had hoped to become the sharer of his cares and struggles. And now? What was she permitted to be to him? What did he receive from her? What had he consented to share with her, who could not feel herself a feeble woman, on this, the anniversary of their wedding-day.
There she stood, her open heart slowly closing and struggling against her longing to cry out to him, and say that she would as gladly bear his cares with him and share every danger, as happiness and honor.
The burgomaster, having now found what he sought, seized his hat and again looked at his wife.
How pale and disappointed she was!
His heart ached; he would so gladly have given expression in words to the great, warm love he felt for her, offered her joyous congratulations; but in this hour, amid his grief, with such anxieties burdening his breast, he could not do it, so he only held out both hands, saying tenderly:
“You surely know what you are to me, Maria, if you do not, I will tell you this evening. I must meet the members of the council at the town-hall, or a whole day will be lost, and at this time we must be avaricious even of the moments. Well, Maria?”
The young wife was gazing at the floor. She would gladly have flown to his breast, but offended pride would not suffer her to do so, and some mysterious power bound her hands and did not permit her to lay them in his.
“Farewell,” she said in a hollow tone.
“Maria!” he exclaimed reproachfully. “To-day is no well-chosen time for pouting. Come and be my sensible wife.”
She did not move instantly; but he heard the bell ring for the fourth hour, the time when the session of the council ended, and left the room without looking back at her.
The little bouquet still lay on the writing-table; the young wife saw it, and with difficulty restrained her tears.
CHAPTER IV.
Countless citizens had flocked to the stately townhall. News of Louis of Nassau’s defeat had spread quickly through all the eighteen wards of the city, and each wanted to learn farther particulars, express his grief and fears to those who held the same views, and hear what measures the council intended to adopt for the immediate future.
Two messengers had only too thoroughly confirmed Baron Matanesse Van Wibisma’s communication. Louis was dead, his brother Henry missing, and his army completely destroyed.
Jan Van Hout, who had taught the boys that morning, now came to a window, informed the citizens what a severe blow the liberty of the country had received, and in vigorous words exhorted them to support the good cause with body and soul.
Loud cheers followed this speech. Gay caps and plumed hats were tossed in the air, canes and swords were waved, and the women and children, who had crowded among the men, fluttered their handkerchiefs, and with their shriller voices drowned the shouts of the citizens.
The members of the valiant city-guard assembled, to charge their captain to give the council the assurance, that the “Schutterij” was ready to support William of Orange to the last penny and drop of their blood, and would rather die for the cause of Holland, than live under Spanish tyranny. Among them was seen many a grave, deeply-troubled face; for these men, who filled its ranks by their own choice, all loved William of Orange: his sorrow hurt them—and their country’s distress pierced their hearts. As soon as the four burgomasters, the eight magistrates of the city, and the members of the common council appeared at the windows, hundreds of voices joined in the Geusenlied,—[Beggars’ Song or Hymn. Beggar was the name given to the patriots by those who sympathized with Spain.]—which had long before been struck up by individuals, and when at sunset the volatile populace scattered and, still singing, turned, either singly or by twos or threes, towards the taverns, to strengthen their confidence in better days and dispel many a well-justified anxiety by drink, the market-place of Leyden and its adjoining streets presented no different aspect, than if a message of victory had been read from the town-hall.
The cheers and Beggars’ Song had sounded very powerful—but so many hundreds of Dutch throats would doubtless have been capable of shaking the air with far mightier tones.
This very remark had been made by the three well-dressed citizens, who were walking through the wide street, past the blue stone, and the eldest said to his companions:
“They boast and shout and seem large to themselves now, but we shall see that things will soon be very different.”
“May God avert the worst!” replied the other, “but the Spaniards will surely advance again, and I know many in my ward who won’t vote for resistance this time.”
“They are right, a thousand times right. Requesens is not Alva, and if we voluntarily seek the king’s pardon—”
“There would be no blood shed and everything would take the best course.”
“I have more love for Holland than for Spain,” said the third. “But, after Mook-Heath, resistance is a thing of the past. Orange may be an excellent prince, but the shirt is closer than the coat.”
“And in fact we risk our lives and fortunes merely for him.”
“My wife said so yesterday.”
“He’ll be the last man to help trade. Believe me, many think as we do, if it were not so, the Beggars’ Song would have sounded louder.”
“There will always be five fools to three wise men,” said the older citizen. “I took good care not to split my mouth.”
“And after all, what great thing is there behind this outcry for freedom? Alva burnt the Bible-readers, De la Marck hangs the priests. My wife likes to go to Mass, but always does so secretly, as if she were committing a crime.”
“We, too, cling to the good old faith.”
“Never mind faith,” said the third. “We are Calvinists, but I take no pleasure in throwing my pennies into Orange’s maw, nor can it gratify me to again tear up the poles before the Cow-gate, ere the wind dries the yarn.”
“Only let us hold together,” advised the older man. “People don’t express their real opinions, and any poor ragged devil might play the hero. But I tell you there will be sensible men enough in every ward, every guild, nay, even in the council, and among the burgomasters.”
“Hush,” whispered the second citizen, “there comes Van der Werff with the city clerk and young Van der Does; they are the worst of all.”
The three persons named came down the broad street, talking eagerly together, but in low tones.
“My uncle is right, Meister Peter,” said Jan Van der Does, the same tall young noble, who, on the morning of that day, had sent Nicolas Van Wibisma home with a kindly warning. “It’s no use, you must seek the Prince and consult with him.”
“I suppose I must,” replied the burgomaster. “I’ll go to-morrow morning.”
“Not to-morrow,” replied Van Hout. “The Prince rides fast, and if you don’t find him in Delft—”
“Do you go first,” urged the burgomaster, “you have the record of our session.”
“I cannot; but to-day you, the Prince’s friend, for the first time lack good-will.”
“You are right, Jan,” exclaimed the burgomaster, “and you shall know what holds me back.”
“If it is anything a friend can do for you, here he stands,” said von Nordwyk.
Van der Werff grasped the hand the young nobleman extended, and answered, smiling: “No, my lord, no. You know my young wife. To-day we should have celebrated the first anniversary of our marriage, and amid all these anxieties I disgracefully forgot it.”
“Hard, hard,” said Van Hout, softly. Then he drew himself up to his full height, and added resolutely: “And yet, were I in your place, I would go, in spite of her.”
“Would you go to-day?”
“To-day, for to-morrow it may be too late. Who knows how soon egress from the city may be stopped and, before again venturing the utmost, we must know the Prince’s opinion. You possess more of his confidence than any of us.”
“And God knows how gladly I would bring him a cheering word in these sorrowful hours; but it must not be to-day. The messenger has ridden off on my bay.”
“Then take my chestnut, he is faster too,” said Janus Dousa and Van der Werff answered hastily.
“Thanks, my lord. I’ll send for him early tomorrow morning.”
The blood mounted to Van Hout’s head and, thrusting his hand angrily between his girdle and doublet, he exclaimed: “Send me the chestnut, if the burgomaster will give me leave of absence.”
“No, send him to me,” replied Peter calmly. “What must be, must be; I’ll go to-day.”
Van Hout’s manly features quickly smoothed and, clasping the burgomaster’s right hand in both his, he said joyously:
“Thanks, Herr Peter. And no offence; you know my hot temper. If the time seems long to your young wife, send her to mine.”
“And mine,” added Dousa. “It’s a strange thing about those two little words ‘wish’ and ‘ought.’ The freer and better a man becomes, the more surely the first becomes the slave of the second.
“And yet, Herr Peter, I’ll wager that your wife will confound the two words to-day, and think you have sorely transgressed against the ‘ought.’ These are bad times for the ‘wish.’”
Van der Werff nodded assent, then briefly and firmly explained to his friends what he intended to disclose to the Prince.
The three men separated before the burgomaster’s house.
“Tell the Prince,” said Van Hout, on parting, “that we are prepared for the worst, will endure and dare it.”
At these words Janus Dousa measured both his companions with his eyes, his lips quivered as they always did when any strong emotion filled his heart, and while his shrewd face beamed with joy and confidence, he exclaimed: “We three will hold out, we three will stand firm, the tyrant may break our necks, but he shall not bend them. Life, fortune, all that is dear and precious and useful to man, we will resign for the highest of blessings.”
“Ay,” said Van der Werff, loudly and earnestly, while Van Hout impetuously repeated: “Yes, yes, thrice yes.”
The three men, so united in feeling, grasped each other’s hands firmly for a moment. A silent vow bound them in this hour, and when Herr von Nordwyk and Van Hout turned in opposite directions, the citizens who met them thought their tall figures had grown taller still within the last few hours.
The burgomaster went to his wife’s room without delay, but did not find her there.
She had gone out of the gate with his sister.
The maid-servant carried a light into his chamber; he followed her, examined the huge locks of his pistols, buckled on his old sword, put what he needed into his saddle-bags, then, with his tall figure drawn up to its full height, paced up and down the room, entirely absorbed in his task.
Herr von Nordwyk’s chestnut horse was stamping on the pavement before the door, and Hesperus was rising above the roofs.
The door of the house now opened.
He went into the entry and found, not his wife, but Adrian, who had just returned home, told the boy to give his most loving remembrances to his mother, and say that he was obliged to seek the Prince on important business.
Old Trautchen had already washed and undressed little Elizabeth, and now brought him the child wrapped in a coverlet. He kissed the dear little face, which smiled at him out of its queer disguise, pressed his lips to Adrian’s forehead, again told him to give his love to his mother, and then rode down Marendorpstrasse.
Two women, coming from the Rheinsburger gate, met him just as he reached St. Stephen’s cloister. He did not notice them, but the younger one pushed the kerchief back from her head, hastily grasped her companion’s wrist, and exclaimed in a low tone:
“That was Peter!”
Barbara raised her head higher.
“It’s lucky I’m not timid. Let go of my arm. Do you mean the horseman trotting past St. Ursula alley?”
“Yes, it is Peter.”
“Nonsense, child! The bay has shorter legs than that tall camel; and Peter never rides out at this hour.”
“But it was he.”
“God forbid! At night a linden looks like a beechtree. It would be a pretty piece of business, if he didn’t come home to-day.”
The last words had escaped Barbara’s lips against her will; for until then she had prudently feigned not to suspect that everything between Maria and her husband was not exactly as it ought to be, though she plainly perceived what was passing in the mind of her young sister-in-law.
She was a shrewd woman, with much experience of the world, who certainly did not undervalue her brother and his importance to the cause of their native land; nay, she went so far as to believe that, with the exception of the Prince of Orange, no man on earth would be more skilful than Peter in guiding the cause of freedom to a successful end; but she felt that her brother was not treating Maria justly, and being a fair-minded woman, silently took sides against the husband who neglected his wife.
Both walked side by side for a time in silence. At last the widow paused, saying:
“Perhaps the Prince has sent a messenger for Peter. In such times, after such blows, everything is possible. You might have seen correctly.”
“It was surely he,” replied Maria positively.
“Poor fellow!” said the other. “It must be a sad ride for him! Much honor, much hardship! You’ve no reason to despond, for your husband will return tomorrow or the day after; while I—look at me, Maria! I go through life stiff and straight, do my duty cheerfully; my cheeks are rosy, my food has a relish, yet I’ve been obliged to resign what was dearest to me. I have endured my widowhood ten years; my daughter Gretchen has married, and I sent Cornelius myself to the Beggars of the Sea. Any hour may rob me of him, for his life is one of constant peril. What has a widow except her only son? And I gave him up for our country’s cause! That is harder than to see a husband ride away for a few hours on the anniversary of his wedding-day. He certainly doesn’t do it for his own pleasure!”
“Here we are at home,” said Maria, raising the knocker.
Trautchen opened the door and, even before crossing the threshold, Barbara exclaimed:
“Is your master at home?”
The reply was in the negative, as she too now expected.
Adrian gave his message; Trautchen brought up the supper, but the conversation would not extend beyond “yes” and “no.”
After Maria had hastily asked the blessing, she rose, and turning to Barbara, said:
“My head aches, I should like to go to bed.”
“Then go to rest,” replied the widow. “I’ll sleep in the next room and leave the door open. In darkness and silence—whims come.”
Maria kissed her sister-in-law with sincere affection, and lay down in bed; but she found no sleep, and tossed restlessly to and fro until near midnight.
Hearing Barbara cough in the next room, she sat up and asked:
“Sister-in-law, are you asleep?”
“No, child. Do you feel ill?”
“Not exactly; but I’m so anxious—horrible thoughts torment me.”
Barbara instantly lighted a candle at the night-lamp, entered the chamber with it, and sat down on the edge of the bed.
Her heart ached as she gazed at the pretty young creature lying alone, full of sorrow, in the wide bed, unable to sleep from bitter grief.
Maria had never seemed to her so beautiful; resting in her white night-robes on the snowy pillow, she looked like a sorrowing angel.
Barbara could not refrain from smoothing the hair back from the narrow forehead and kissing the flushed cheeks.
Maria gazed gratefully into her small, light-blue eyes and said beseechingly:
“I should like to ask you something.”
“Well?”
“But you must honestly tell me the truth.”
“That is asking a great deal!”
“I know you are sincere, but it is—”
“Speak freely.”
“Was Peter happy with his first wife?”
“Yes, child, yes.”
“And do you know this not only from him, but also from his dead wife, Eva?”
“Yes, sister-in-law, yes.”
“And you can’t be mistaken?”
“Not in this case certainly! But what puts such thoughts into your head? The Bible says: ‘Let the dead bury their dead.’ Now turn over and try to sleep.”
Barbara went back to her room, but hours elapsed ere Maria found the slumber she sought.
CHAPTER V.
The next morning two horsemen, dressed in neat livery, were waiting before the door of a handsome House in Nobelstrasse, near the market-place. A third was leading two sturdy roan steeds up and down, and a stable-boy held by the bridle a gaily-bedizened, long maned pony. This was intended for the young negro lad, who stood in the door-way of the house and kept off the street-boys, who ventured to approach, by rolling his eyes and gnashing his white teeth at them.
“Where can they be?” said one of the mounted men: “The rain won’t keep off long to-day.”
“Certainly not,” replied the other. “The sky is as grey as my old felt-hat, and, by the time we reach the forest, it will be pouring.”
“It’s misting already.”
“Such cold, damp weather is particularly disagreeable to me.”
“It was pleasant yesterday.”
“Button the flaps tighter over the pistol-holsters! The portmanteau behind the young master’s saddle isn’t exactly even. There! Did the cook fill the flask for you?”
“With brown Spanish wine. There it is.”
“Then let it pour. When a fellow is wet inside, he can bear a great deal of moisture without.”
“Lead the horses up to the door; I hear the gentlemen.”
The man was not mistaken; for before his companion had succeeded in stopping the larger roan, the voices of his master, Herr Matanesse Van Wibisma, and his son, Nicolas, were heard in the wide entry.
Both were exchanging affectionate farewells with a young girl, whose voice sounded deeper than the halfgrown boy’s.
As the older gentleman thrust his hand through the roan’s mane and was already lifting his foot to put it in the stirrup, the young girl, who had remained in the entry, came out into the street, laid her hand on Wibisma’s arm, and said:
“One word more, uncle, but to you alone.”
The baron still held his horse’s mane in his hand, exclaiming with a cordial smile:
“If only it isn’t too heavy for the roan. A secret from beautiful lips has its weight.”
While speaking, he bent his ear towards his niece, but she did not seem to have intended to whisper, for she approached no nearer and merely lowered her tone, saying in the Italian language:
“Please tell my father, that I won’t stay here.”
“Why, Henrica!”
“Tell him I won’t do so under any circumstances.”
“Your aunt won’t let you go.”
“In short, I won’t stay.”
“I’ll deliver the message, but in somewhat milder terms, if agreeable to you.”
“As you choose. Tell him, too, that I beg him to send for me. If he doesn’t wish to enter this heretic’s nest himself, for which I don’t blame him in the least, he need only send horses or the carriage for me.”
“And your reasons?”
“I won’t weight your baggage still more heavily. Go, or the saddle will be wet before you ride off.”
“Then I’m to tell Hoogstraten to expect a letter.”
“No. Such things can’t be written. Besides, it won’t be necessary. Tell my father I won’t stay with aunt, and want to go home. Good-bye, Nico. Your riding-boots and green cloth doublet are much more becoming than those silk fal-lals.”
The young lady kissed her hand to the youth, who had already swung himself into the saddle, and hurried back to the house. Her uncle shrugged his shoulders, mounted the roan, wrapped the dark cloak closer around him, beckoned Nicolas to his side, and rode on with him in advance of the servants.
No word was exchanged between them, so long as their way led through the city, but outside the gate, Wibisma said:
“Henrica finds the time long in Leyden; she would like to go back to her father.”
“It can’t be very pleasant to stay with aunt,” replied the youth.
“She is old and sick, and her life has been a joyless one.”
“Yet she was beautiful. Few traces of it are visible, but her eyes are still like those in the portrait, and besides she is so rich.”
“That doesn’t give happiness.”
“But why has she remained unmarried?” The baron shrugged his shoulders, and replied: “It certainly didn’t suit the men.”
“Then why didn’t she go into a convent?”
“Who knows? Women’s hearts are harder to understand than your Greek books. You’ll learn that later. What were you saying to your aunt as I came up?”
“Why, just see,” replied the boy, putting the bridle in his mouth, and drawing the glove from his left hand, “she slipped this ring on my finger.”
“A splendid emerald! She doesn’t usually like to part with such things.”
“She first offered me another, saying she would give it to me to make amends for the thumps I received yesterday as a faithful follower of the king. Isn’t it comical?”
“More than that, I should think.”
“It was contrary to my nature to accept gifts for my bruises, and I hastily drew my hand back, saying the burgher lads had taken some home from me, and I wouldn’t have the ring as a reward for that.”
“Right, Nico, right.”
“So she said too, put the little ring back in the box, found this one, and here it is.”
“A valuable gem!” murmured the baron, thinking: “This gift is a good omen. The Hoogstratens and he are her nearest heirs, and if the silly girl doesn’t stay with her, it might happen—”
But he found no time to finish these reflections, Nicolas interrupted them by saying:
“It’s beginning to rain already. Don’t the fogs on the meadows look like clouds fallen from the skies? I am cold.”
“Draw your cloak closer.”
“How it rains and hails! One would think it was winter. The water in the canals looks black, and yonder—see—what is that?”
A tavern stood beside the road, and just in front of it a single lofty elm towered towards the sky. Its trunk, bare as a mast, had grown straight up without separating into branches until it attained the height of a house. Spring had as yet lured no leaves from the boughs, but there were many objects to be seen in the bare top of the tree. A small flag, bearing the colors of the House of Orange, was fastened to one branch, from another hung a large doll, which at a distance strongly resembled a man dressed in black, an old hat dangled from a third, and a fourth supported a piece of white pasteboard, on which might be read in large black letters, which the rain was already beginning to efface: