denies it, Meister Allerts? But tell me, what do you mean by your cry: Roland, my fore man?”
“Another time, Wilhelm; you mustn’t interrupt me now. Hear my story about where the worm hides in me. So once more: What I do, the calling I follow, is knightly work, yet when a Wibisma, who learned how to use his sword from my father, treats me ill and stirs up my bile, if I should presume to challenge him, as would be my just right, what would he do? Laugh and ask: ‘What will the passado cost, Fencing-master Allerts? Have you polished rapiers?’ Perhaps he wouldn’t even answer at all, and we saw just now how he acts. His glance slipped past me like an eel, and he had wax in his ears. Whether I reproach, or a cur yelps at him, is all the same to his lordship. If only a Renneberg or Brederode had been in my place just now, how quickly Wibisma’s sword would have flown from its sheath, for he understands how to fight and is no coward. But I—I? Nobody would willingly allow himself to be struck in the face, yet so surely as my father was a brave man, even the worst insult could be more easily borne, than the feeling of being held in too slight esteem to be able to offer an affront. You see, Wilhelm, when the Glipper looked past me—”
“Your beard lost its calmness.”
“It’s all very well for you to jest, you don’t know—”
“Yes, yes, Herr Allerts; I understand you perfectly.”
“And do you also understand, why I took myself and my sword out of doors so quickly?”
“Perfectly; but please stop a moment with me now. The doves are fluttering so violently; they want air.” The fencing-master stopped his steed, and while Wilhelm was removing the dripping cloth from the little cage that rested between him and his horse’s neck, said:
“How can a man trouble himself about such gentle little creatures? If you want to diminish, in behalf of feathered folk, the time given to music, tame falcons, that’s a knightly craft, and I can teach you.”
“Let my doves alone,” replied Wilhelm. “They are not so harmless as people suppose, and have done good service in many a war, which is certainly chivalrous pastime. Remember Haarlem. There, it’s beginning to pour again. If my cloak were only not so short; I would like to cover the doves with it.”
“You certainly look like Goliath in David’s garments.”
“It’s my scholar’s cloak; I put my other on young Wibisma’s shoulders yesterday.”
“The Spanish green-finch?”
“I told you about the boys’ brawl.”
“Yes, yes. And the monkey kept your cloak?”
“You came for me and wouldn’t wait. They probably sent it back soon after our departure.”
“And their lordships expect thanks because the young nobleman accepted it!”
“No, no; the baron expressed his gratitude.”
“But that doesn’t make your cape any longer. Take my cloak, Wilhelm. I’ve no doves to shelter, and my skin is thicker than yours.”
CHAPTER VII.
A second and third rainy day followed the first one. White mists and grey fog hung over the meadows. The cold, damp north-west wind drove heavy clouds together and darkened the sky. Rivulets dashed into the streets from the gutters on the steep roofs of Leyden; the water in the canals and ditches grew turbid and rose towards the edges of the banks. Dripping, freezing men and women hurried past each other without any form of greeting, while the pair of storks pressed closer to each other in their nest, and thought of the warm south, lamenting their premature return to the cold, damp, Netherland plain.
In thoughtful minds the dread of what must inevitably come was increasing. The rain made anxiety grow as rapidly in the hearts of many citizens, as the young blades of grain in the fields. Conversations, that sounded anything but hopeful, took place in many tap-rooms—in others men were even heard declaring resistance folly, or loudly demanding the desertion of the cause of the Prince of Orange and liberty.
Whoever in these days desired to see a happy face in Leyden might have searched long in vain, and would probably have least expected to find it in the house of Burgomaster Van der Werff.
Three days had now elapsed since Peter’s departure, nay the fourth was drawing towards noon, yet the burgomaster had not returned, and no message, no word of explanation, had reached his family.
Maria had put on her light-blue cloth dress with Mechlin lace in the square neck, for her husband particularly liked to see her in this gown and he must surely return to-day.
The spray of yellow wall-flowers on her breast had been cut from the blooming plant in the window of her room, and Barbara had helped arrange her thick hair.
It lacked only an hour of noon, when the young wife’s delicate, slender figure, carrying a white duster in her hand, entered the burgomaster’s study. Here she stationed herself at the window, from which the pouring rain streamed in numerous crooked serpentine lines, pressed her forehead against the panes, and gazed down into the quiet street.
The water was standing between the smooth red tiles of the pavement. A porter clattered by in heavy wooden shoes, a maid-servant, with a shawl wrapped around her head, hurried swiftly past, a shoemaker’s boy, with a pair of boots hanging on his back, jumped from puddle to puddle, carefully avoiding the dry places;—no horseman appeared.
It was almost unnaturally quiet in the house and street; she heard nothing except the plashing of the rain. Maria could not expect her husband until the beat of horses’ hoofs was audible; she was not even gazing into the distance—only dreamily watching the street and the ceaseless rain.
The room had been thoughtfully heated for the drenched man, whose return was expected, but Maria felt the cold air through the chinks in the windows. She shivered, and as she turned back into the dusky room, it seemed as if this twilight atmosphere must always remain, as if no more bright days could ever come.
Minutes passed before she remembered for what purpose she had entered the room and began to pass the dusting-cloth over the writing-table, the piles of papers, and the rest of the contents of the apartment. At last she approached the pistols, which Peter had not taken with him on his journey.
The portrait of her husband’s first wife hung above the weapons and sadly needed dusting, for until now Maria had always shrunk from touching it.
To-day she summoned up her courage, stood opposite to it, and gazed steadily at the youthful features of the woman, with whom Peter had been happy. She felt spellbound by the brown eyes that gazed at her from the pleasant face.
Yes, the woman up there looked happy, almost insolently happy. How much more had Peter probably given to his first wife than to her?
This thought cut her to the heart, and without moving her lips she addressed a series of questions to the silent portrait, which still gazed steadily and serenely at her from its plain frame.
Once it seemed as if the full lips of the pictured face quivered, once that the eyes moved. A chill ran through her veins, she began
