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A current of warm air, redolent of beer and food, met the travellers as they entered the large, low room, dimly lighted by the tiny windows, scarcely more than loop-holes, pierced in two sides. The tap-room itself looked like the cabin of a ship. Ceiling and floor, chairs and tables, were made of the same dark-brown wood that covered the walls, along which beds were ranged like berths.
The host, with many bows, came forward to receive the aristocratic guests, and led them to the fire-place, where huge pieces of peat were glimmering. The heat they sent forth answered several purposes at the same time. It warmed the air, lighted a portion of the room, which was very dark in rainy weather, and served to cook three fowl that, suspended from a thin iron bar over the fire, were already beginning to brown.
As the new guests approached the hearth, an old woman, who had been turning the spit, pushed a white cat from her lap and rose.
The landlord tossed on a bench several garments spread over the backs of two chairs to dry, and hung in their place the dripping cloaks of the baron and his son.
While the elder Wibisma was ordering something hot to drink for himself and servants, Nicolas led the black page to the fire.
The shivering boy crouched on the floor beside the ashes, and stretched now his soaked feet, shod in red morocco, and now his stiffened fingers to the blaze.
The father and son took their seats at a table, over which the maid-servant had spread a cloth. The baron was inclined to enter into conversation about the decorated tree with the landlord, an over-civil, pock-marked dwarf, whose clothes were precisely the same shade of brown as the wood in his tap-room; but refrained from doing so because two citizens of Leyden, one of whom was well known to him, sat at a short distance from his table, and he did not wish to be drawn into a quarrel in a place like this.
After Nicolas had also glanced around the tap-room, he touched his father, saying in a low tone:
“Did you notice the men yonder? The younger one—he’s lifting the cover of the tankard now—is the organist who released me from the boys and gave me his cloak yesterday.”
“The one yonder?” asked the nobleman. “A handsome young fellow. He might be taken for an artist or something of that kind. Here, landlord, who is the gentleman with brown hair and large eyes, talking to Allertssohn, the fencing-master?”
“It’s Herr Wilhelm, younger son of old Herr Cornelius, Receiver General, a player or musician, as they call them.”
“Eh, eh,” cried the baron. “His father is one of my old Leyden acquaintances. He was a worthy, excellent man before the craze for liberty turned people’s heads. The youth, too, has a face pleasant to look at.
“There is something pure about it—something-it’s hard to say, something—what do you think, Nico? Doesn’t he look like our Saint Sebastian? Shall I speak to him and thank him for his kindness?”
The baron, without waiting for his son, whom he treated as an equal, to reply, rose to give expression to his friendly feelings towards the musician, but this laudable intention met with an unexpected obstacle.
The man, whom the baron had called the fencing-master Allertssohn, had just perceived that the “Glippers” cloaks were hanging by the fire, while his friend’s and his own were flung on a bench. This fact seemed to greatly irritate the Leyden burgher; for as the baron rose, he pushed his own chair violently back, bent his muscular body forward, rested both arms on the edge of the table opposite to him and, with a jerking motion, turned his soldierly face sometimes towards the baron, and sometimes towards the landlord. At last he shouted loudly:
“Peter Quatgelat—you villain, you! What ails you, you, miserable hunchback!—Who gives you a right to toss our cloaks into a corner?”
“Yours, Captain,” stammered the host, “were already—”
“Hold your tongue, you fawning knave!” thundered the other in so loud a tone and such excitement, that the long grey moustache on his upper lip shook, and the thick beard on his chin trembled. “Hold your tongue! We know better. Jove’s thunder! Nobleman’s cloaks are favored here. They’re of Spanish cut. That exactly suits the Glippers’ faces. Good Dutch cloth is thrown into the corner. Ho, ho, Brother Crooklegs, we’ll put you on parade.”
“Pray, most noble Captain—”
“I’ll blow away your most noble, you worthless scamp, you arrant rascal! First come, first served, is the rule in Holland, and has been ever since the days of Adam and Eve. Prick up your ears, Crooklegs! If my ‘most noble’ cloak, and Herr Wilhelm’s too, are not hanging in their old places before I count twenty, something will happen here that won’t suit you. One-two-three—”
The landlord cast a timid, questioning glance at the nobleman, and as the latter shrugged his shoulders and said audibly: “There is probably room for more than two cloaks at the fire,” Quatgelat took the Leyden guests’ wraps from the bench and hung them on two chairs, which he pushed up to the mantel-piece.
While this was being done, the fencing-master slowly continued to count. By the time he reached twenty the landlord had finished his task, yet the irate captain still gave him no peace, but said:
“Now our reckoning, man. Wind and storm are far from pleasant, but I know even worse company. There’s room enough at the fire for four cloaks, and in Holland for all the animals in Noah’s ark, except Spaniards and the allies of Spain. Deuce take it, all the bile in my liver is stirred. Come to the horses with me, Herr Wilhelm, or there’ll be mischief.”
The fencing-master, while uttering the last words, stared angrily at the nobleman with his prominent eyes, which even under ordinary circumstances, always looked as keen as if they had something marvellous to examine.
Wibisma pretended not to hear the provoking words, and, as the fencing-master left the room, walked calmly, with head erect, towards the musician, bowed courteously, and thanked him for the kindness he had shown his son the day before.
“You are not in the least indebted to me,” replied Wilhelm Corneliussohn. “I helped the young nobleman, because it always has an ill look when numbers attack one.”
“Then allow me to praise this opinion,” replied the baron.
“Opinion,” repeated the musician with a subtle smile, drawing a few notes on the table.
The baron watched his fingers silently a short time, then advanced nearer the young man, asking:
“Must everything now relate to political dissensions?”
“Yes,” replied Wilhelm firmly, turning his face with a rapid movement towards the older man. “In these times ‘yes,’ twenty times ‘yes.’ You wouldn’t do well to discuss opinions with me, Herr Matanesse.”
“Every man,” replied the nobleman, shrugging his shoulders, “every man of course believes his own opinion the right one, yet he ought to respect the views of those who think differently.”
“No, my lord,” cried the musician. “In these times there is but one opinion for us. I wish to share nothing, not even a drink at the table, with any man who has Holland blood, and feels differently. Excuse me, my lord; my travelling companion, as
