The fathers of the city had determined to seize the Glippers' abandoned
dwellings and apply the property found in them to the benefit of the
common cause.

The old lady's hostility to the patriots was known to all, and as her
nearest relatives, Herr Van Hoogstraten and Matanesse Van Wibisma, had
been banished from Leyden, the duty of representing the heirs fell upon
the city.  It was to be expected that only notorious Glippers would be
remembered in the dead woman's will, and if this was the case, the
revenue from the personal and real estate would fall to the city, until
the deserters mended their ways, and adopted a course of conduct that
would permit the magistrates to again open their gates to them.  Whoever
continued to cling to the Spaniards and oppose the cause of liberty,
would forfeit his share of the inheritance.  This was no new procedure.
King Philip had taught its practice, nay not only the estates of
countless innocent persons who had been executed, banished or gone into
voluntary exile for the sake of the new religion, but also the property
of good Catholic patriots had been confiscated for his benefit.  After
being anvil so many years, it is pleasant to play hammer; and if that was
not always done in a proper and moderate way, people excused themselves
on the ground of having experienced a hundred-fold harsher and more cruel
treatment from the Spaniards.  It might have been unchristian to repay in
the same coin, but they dealt severe blows only in mortal conflict, and
did not seek the Glippers' lives.

At the door of the house of death, the magistrates met the musician
Wilhelm Corneliussohn and his mother, who had come to offer Henrica a
hospitable reception in their house.  The mother, who had at first
refused to extend her love for her neighbor to the young Glipper girl,
now found it hard to be deprived of the opportunity to do a good work,
and gave expression to these feelings in the sturdy fashion peculiar to
her.

Belotti was standing in the entry, no longer attired in the silk hose and
satin-bordered cloth garments of the steward, but in a plain burgher
dress.  He told the musician and Peter, that he remained in Leyden
principally because he could not bear to leave the sick maid, Denise, in
the lurch; but other matters also detained him, especially, though he was
reluctant to acknowledge it, the feeling, strengthened by long years of
service, that he belonged to the Hoogstraten house.  The dead woman's
attorney had said that his account books were in good order, and
willingly paid the balance due him.  His savings had been well invested,
and as he never touched the interest, but added to the capital, had
considerably increased.  Nothing detained him in Leyden, yet he could not
leave it until everything was settled in the house where he had so long
ruled.

He had daily inquired for the sick lady, and after her death, though
Denise began to recover, still lingered in Leyden; he thought it his duty
to show the last honors to the dead by attending her funeral.

The magistrates were glad to find Belotti in the house.  The notary had
managed his little property, and respected him as an honest man.  He now
asked him to act as guide to his companions and himself.  The most
important matter was to find the dead woman's will.  Such a document must
be in existence, for up to the day after Henrica's illness it had been in
the lawyer's possession, but was then sent for by the old lady, who
desired to make some changes in it.  He could give no information about
its contents, for his dead partner, whose business had fallen to him, had
assisted in drawing it up.

The steward first conducted the visitors to the padrona's sitting-room
and boudoir, but though they searched the writing-tables, chests and
drawers, and discovered many letters, money and valuable jewels in boxes
and caskets, the document was not found.

The gentlemen thought it was concealed in a secret drawer, and ordered
one of the constables to call a locksmith.  Belotti allowed this to be
done, but meantime listened with special attention to the low chanting
that issued from the bedroom where the old lady's body lay.  He knew that
the will would most probably be found there, but was anxious to have the
priest complete the consecration of his mistress undisturbed.  As soon as
all was still in the death-chamber, he asked the gentlemen to follow him.

The lofty apartment into which he led them, was filled with the odor of
incense.  A large bedstead, over which a pointed canopy of heavy silk
rose to the ceiling, stood at the back, the coffin in which the dead
woman lay had been placed in the middle of the room.  A linen cloth,
trimmed with lace, covered the face.  The delicate hands, still
unwrinkled, were folded, and lightly clasped a well-worn rosary.  The
lifeless form was concealed beneath a costly coverlid, in the centre of
which lay an exquisitely-carved ivory crucifix.

The visitors bowed mutely before the corpse.  Belotti approached it and,
as he saw the padrona's well-known hands, a convulsive sob shook the old
man's breast.  Then he knelt beside the coffin, pressed his lips, to the
cold, slender fingers, and a warm tear, the only one shed for this dead
form, fell on the hands now clasped forever.

The burgomaster and his companion did not interrupt him, even when he
laid his forehead upon the wood of the coffin and uttered a brief, silent
prayer.  After he had risen, and an elderly priest in the sacerdotal
robes had left the room, Father Damianus beckoned to the acolytes, with
whom he had lingered in the background, and aided by them and Belotti put
the lid on the coffin, then turned to Peter Van der Werff, saying:

"We intend to bury Fraulein Van Hoogstraten at midnight, that no offence
may be given."

"Very well, sir!"  replied the burgomaster.  "Whatever may happen, we
shall not expel you from the city.  Of course, if you prefer to go to the
Spaniards--"

Damianus shook his head and, interrupting the burgomaster, answered
modestly:

"No, sir; I am a native of Utrecht and will gladly pray for the liberty
of Holland."

"There, there!"  exclaimed Van Hout.  "Those were good words, admirable
words!  Your hand, Father."

"There it is; and, so long as you don't change the 'haec libertatis ergo'
on your coins to 'haec religionis ergo,' not one of those words need be
altered."

"A free country and in it religious liberty for each individual, even for
you and your followers," said the burgomaster, "is what we desire.
Doctor Bontius has spoken of you, worthy man; you have cared well for
this dead woman.  Bury her according to the customs of your church; we
have come to arrange the earthly possessions she leaves behind.  Perhaps
this casket may contain the will."

"No, sir," replied the priest.  "She opened  the sealed paper in my
presence, when she was first taken sick, and wrote a few words whenever
she felt stronger.  An hour before her end, she ordered the notary to be
sent for, but when he came life had departed.  I could not remain
constantly beside the corpse, so I locked up the paper in the linen
chest.  There is the key."

The opened will was soon found.  The burgomaster quietly unfolded it,
and, while reading its contents aloud, the notary and city clerk looked
over his shoulder.

The property was to be divided among various churches and convents, where
masses were to be read for her soul, and her nearest blood relations.
Belotti and Denise received small legacies.

"It is fortunate," exclaimed Van Hout, "that this paper is a piece of
paper and nothing more."

"The document has no legal value whatever," added the notary, "for it was
taken from me and opened with the explicit statement, that changes were
to be made.  Here is a great deal to be read on the back."

The task, that the gentlemen now undertook, was no easy one, for the sick
woman had scrawled short notes above and below, hither and thither, on
the blank back of the document, probably to assist her memory while
composing a new will.

At the very top a crucifix was sketched with an unsteady hand, and below
it the words: "Pray for us!  Everything shall belong to holy Mother
Church."

Farther down they read: "Nico, I like the lad.  The castle on the downs.
Ten thousand gold florins in money.  To be secured exclusively to him.
His father is not to touch it.  Make the reason for disinheriting him
conspicuous.  Van Vliet of Haarlem was the gentleman whose daughter my
cousin secretly wedded.  On some pitiful pretext he deserted her, to form
another marriage.  If he has forgotten it, I have remembered and would
fain impress it upon him.  Let Nico pay heed:  False love is poison.  My
life has been ruined by it--ruined."

The second "ruined" was followed by numerous repetitions of the same
word.  The last one, at the very end of the sentence, had been ornamented
with numerous curves and spirals by the sick woman's pen.

On the right-hand margin of the sheet stood a series of short notes

"Ten thousand florins to Anna.  To be secured to herself.  Otherwise they
will fall into the clutches of that foot-pad, d'Avila.

"Three times as much to Henrica.  Her father will pay her the money--from
the sum he owes me.  Where he gets it is his affair.  Thus the account
with him would be settled.

"Belotti has behaved badly.  He shall be passed over.

"Denise may keep what was given her."

In the middle of the paper, written in large characters, twice and thrice
underlined, was the sentence: "The ebony-casket with  the  Hoogstraten
and d'Avila arms on the lid is to be sent to the widow of the Marquis
d'Avennes.  Forward it to Chateau Rochebrun in Normandy."

The men, who had mutually deciphered these words, looked at each other
silently, until Van Hout exclaimed:

"What a confused mixture of malice and feminine weakness.  Let a woman's
heart seem ever so cold; glacier flowers will always be found in it."

"I'm sorry for the young lady in  your house, Herr Peter," cried the
notary, it would be easier to get sparks from rye-bread, than such a sum
from the debt-laden poor devil.  The daughter's portion will be curtailed
by the father; that's what I call bargaining between relations."

"What can be in the casket?" asked the notary.  "There it is," cried Van
Hout.

"Bring it here, Belotti."

"We must open it," said the lawyer, "perhaps she is trying to convey her
most valuable property across the frontiers."

"Open it?  Contrary to the dead woman's express desire?"  asked Van der
Werff.

"Certainly!"  cried the notary.  "We were sent here to ascertain the
amount of the inheritance.  The lid is fastened.  Take the picklock,
Meister.  There, it is open."  The city magistrates found no valuables in
the casket, merely letters of different dates.  There were not many.
Those at the bottom, yellow with age, contained vows of love from the
Marquis d'Avennes, the more recent ones were brief and, signed Don Louis
d'Avila.  Van Hout, who understood the Castilian language in which they
were written, hastily read them.  As he was approaching the end of the
last one, he exclaimed with lively indignation:

"We have here the key of a rascally trick in our hands!  Do you remember
the excitement aroused four years ago by the duel, in which the Marquis
d'Avennes fell a victim to a Spanish brawler?  The miserable bravo writes
in this letter that he has....It will be worth the trouble; I'll
translate it for you.  The first part of the note is of no importance;
but now comes the point: 'And now, after having succeeded in crossing
swords with the marquis and killing him, not without personal danger, a
fate he has doubtless deserved, since he aroused your displeasure to such
a degree, the condition you imposed upon me is fulfilled, and to-morrow I
hope through your favor to receive the sweetest reward.  Tell Donna Anna,
my adored betrothed, that I would fain lead her to the altar early
to-morrow morning, for the d'Avennes are influential and the following
day my safety will perhaps be imperilled.  As for the rest, I hope I may
be permitted to rely upon the fairness and generosity of my patroness."

Van Hout flung the letter on the table, exclaiming "See, what a dainty
hand the bravo writes.  And, Jove's thunder, the lady to whom this
plotted murder was to have been sent, is doubtless the mother of the
unfortunate marquis, whom the Spanish assassin slew."

"Yes, Herr Van Hout," said Belotti, "I can confirm your supposition.  The
marquise was the wife of the man, who broke his plighted faith to the
young Fraulein Van Hoogstraten.  She, who lies there, saw many suns rise
and set, ere her vengeance ripened."

"Throw the scrawl into the fire!"  cried Van Hout impetuously.

"No," replied Peter.  "We will not send the letters, but you must keep
them in the archives.  God's mills grind slowly, and who knows what good
purpose these sheets may yet serve."

The city clerk nodded assent and folding the papers, said: "I think the
dead woman's property will be an advantage to the city."

"The Prince will dispose of it," replied Van der Werff.  "How long have
you served this lady, Belotti?"

"Fifteen years."

"Then remain in Leyden for a time.  I think you may expect the legacy she
originally left you.  I will urge your claim."

A few hours before the nocturnal burial of old Fraulein Van Hoogstraten,
Herr Matanesse Van Wibisma and his son Nicolas appeared before the city,
but were refused admittance by the men who guarded the gates, although
both appealed to their relative's death.  Henrica's father did not come,
he had gone several days before to attend a tourney at Cologne.




CHAPTER XVI.

Between twelve and one o'clock on the 26th of May, Ascension-Day, the
ringing of bells announced the opening of the great fair.  The old
circuit of the boundaries of the fields had long since given place to a
church festival, but the name of "Ommegang" remained interwoven with that
of the fair, and even after the new religion had obtained the mastery,
all sorts of processions took place at the commencement of the fair.

In the days of Catholic rule the cross had been borne through the streets
in a soleum procession, in which all Leyden took part, now the banners of
the city and standards bearing the colors of the House of Orange headed
the train, followed by the nobles on horseback, the city magistrates in
festal array, the clergy in black robes, the volunteers in magnificent
uniforms, the guilds with their emblems, and long joyous ranks of school-
children.  Even the poorest people bought some thing new for their little
ones on this day.  Never did mothers braid their young daughters' hair
more carefully, than for the procession at the opening of the fair.
Spite of the hard times, many a stiver was taken from slender purses for
fresh ribbons and new shoes, becoming caps and bright-hued stockings.
The spring sunshine could be reflected from the little girls' shining,
smoothly-combed hair, and the big boys and little children looked even
gayer than the flowers in Herr Van Montfort's garden, by which the
procession was obliged to pass.  Each wore a sprig of green leaves in his
cap beside the plume, and the smaller the boy, the larger the branch.
There was no lack of loud talk and merry shouts, for every child that
passed its home called to its mother, grandparents, and the servants, and
when one raised its voice many others instantly followed.  The grown
people too were not silent, and as the procession approached the town-
hall, head-quarters of military companies, guild-halls or residences of
popular men, loud cheers arose, mingled with the ringing of bells, the
shouts of the sailors on both arms of the Rhine and on the canals, the
playing of the city musicians at the street corners, and the rattle of
guns and roar of cannon fired by the gunners and their assistants from
the citadel.  It was a joyous tumult in jocund spring!  These merry
mortals seemed to lull themselves carelessly in the secure enjoyment of
peace and prosperity, and how blue the sky was, how warmly and brightly
the sun shone!  The only grave, anxious faces were among the magistrates;
but the guilds and the children behind did not see them, so the
rejoicings continued without interruption until the churches received the
procession, and words so earnest and full of warning echoed from the
pulpits, that many grew thoughtful.

All three phases of time belong to man, the past to the graybeard, the
future to youth, and the present to childhood.  What cared the little
boys and girls of Leyden, released from school during the fair, for the
peril close at hand?  Whoever, on the first day and during the great
linen-fair on Friday and the following days, received spending money from
parents or godparents, or whoever had eyes to see, ears to hear, and a
nose to smell, passed through the rows of booths with his or her
companions, stopped before the camels and dancing-bears, gazed into the
open taverns, where not only lads and lasses, but merry old people
whirled in the dance to the music of bagpipes, clarionets and violins--
examined gingerbread and other dainties with the attention of an expert,
or obeyed the blasts of the trumpet, by which the quack doctor's negro
summoned the crowd.

Adrian, the burgomaster's son, also strolled day after day, alone or with
his companions, through the splendors of the fair, often grasping with
the secure sense of wealth the leather purse that hung at his belt, for
it contained several stivers, which had flowed in from various sources;
his father, his mother, Barbara and his godmother.  Captain Van
Duivenvoorde, his particular friend, on whose noble horse he had often
ridden, had taken him three times into a wafer booth, where he eat till
he was satisfied, and thus, even on the Tuesday after Ascension-Day, his
little fortune was but slightly diminished.  He intended to buy something
very big and sensible: a knight's sword or a cross-bow; perhaps even--but
this thought seemed like an evil temptation--the ginger-cake covered with
almonds, which was exhibited in the booth of a Delft confectioner.  He
and Bessie could surely nibble for weeks upon this giant cake, if they
were economical, and economy is an admirable virtue.  Something must at
any rate be spared for "little brothers,"--[A kind of griddle or
pancake.]--the nice spiced cakes which were baked in many booths before
the eyes of the passers-by.

On Tuesday afternoon his way led him past the famous Rotterdam cake-shop.
Before the door of the building, made of boards lightly joined together
and decked with mirrors and gay pictures, a stout, pretty woman, in the
bloom of youth, sat in a high arm-chair, pouring rapidly, with remarkable
skill, liquid dough into the hot iron plate, provided with numerous
indentations, that stood just on a level with her comfortably outspread
lap.  Her assistant hastily turned with a fork the little cakes, browning
rapidly in the hollows of the iron, and when baked, laid them neatly on
small plates.  The waiter prepared them for purchasers by putting a large
piece of yellow butter on the smoking pile.  A tempting odor, that only
too vividly recalled former enjoyment, rose from the fireplace, and
Adrian's fingers were already examining the contents of his purse, when
the negro's trumpet sounded and the quack doctor's cart stopped directly
in front of the booth.

The famous Doctor Morpurgo was a fine-looking man, dressed in bright
scarlet, who had a thin, coalblack beard hanging over his breast.  His
movements were measured and haughty, the bows and gestures with which he
saluted the assembled crowd, patronizing and affable.  After a sufficient
number of curious persons had gathered around his cart, which was stocked
with boxes and vials, he began to address them in broken Dutch, spiced
with numerous foreign words.

He praised the goodness of the Providence which had created the marvel of
human organism.  Everything, he said, was arranged and formed wisely and
in the best possible manner, but in one respect nature fared badly in the
presence of adepts.

"Do you know where the error is, ladies and gentlemen?"  he asked.

"In the purse," cried a merry barber's clerk, "it grows prematurely thin
every day."

"Right, my son," answered the quack graciously.  "But nature also
provides it with the great door from which your answer has come.  Your
teeth are a bungling piece of workmanship.  They appear with pain, decay
with time, and so long as they last torture those who do not
industriously attend to them.  But art will correct nature.  See this
box--" and he now began to praise the tooth-powder and cure for toothache
he had invented.  Next he passed to the head, and described in vivid
colors, its various pains.  But they too were to be cured, people need
only buy his arcanum.  It was to be had for a trifle, and whoever bought
it could sweep away every headache, even the worst, as with a broom.

Adrian listened to the famous doctor with mouth wide open.  Specially
sweet odors floated over to him from the hot surface of the stove before
the booth, and he would have gladly allowed himself a plate of fresh
cakes.  The baker's stout wife even beckoned to him with a spoon, but he
closed his hand around the purse and again turned his eyes towards the
quack, whose cart was now surrounded by men and women buying tinctures
and medicines.

Henrica lay ill in his father's house.  He had been taken into her room
twice, and the beautiful pale face, with its large dark eyes, had filled
his heart with pity.  The clear, deep voice in which she addressed a few
words to him, also seemed wonderful and penetrated the inmost depths of
his soul:  He was told one morning that she was there, and since that
time his mother rarely appeared and the house was far more quiet than
usual; for everybody walked lightly, spoke in subdued tones, rapped
cautiously at a window instead of using the knocker, and whenever Bessie
or he laughed aloud or ran up or down-stairs, Barbara, his mother, or
Trautchen appeared and whispered: "Gently, children, the young lady has a
headache."

There were many bottles in the cart which were warranted to cure the
ailment, and the famous Morpurgo seemed to be a very sensible man, no
buffoon like the other mountebanks.  The wife of the baker, Wilhelm
Peterssohn, who stood beside him, a woman he knew well, said to her
companion that the doctor's remedies were good, they had quickly cured
her godmother of a bad attack of erysipelas.

The words matured the boy's resolution.  Fleeting visions of the sword,
the cross-bow, the gingerbread and the nice little brothers once more
rose before his mind, but with a powerful effort of the will he thrust
them aside, held his breath that he might not smell the alluring odor of
the cakes, and hastily approached the cart.  Here he unfastened his purse
from his belt, poured its contents into his hand, showed the coins to the
doctor, who had fixed his black eyes kindly on the odd customer, and
asked: "Will this be enough?"

"For what?"

"For the medicine to cure headache."

The quack separated the little coins in Adrian's hand with his
forefinger, and answered gravely: "No, my son, but I am always glad to
advance the cause of knowledge.  There is still a great deal for you to
learn at school, and the headache will prevent it.  Here are the drops
and, as it's you, I'll give this prescription for another arcanum into
the bargain."

Adrian hastily wrapped the little vial the quack handed him in the piece
of printed paper, received his dearly-bought treasure, and ran home.  On
the way he was stopped by Captain Allertssohn, who came towards him with
the musician Wilhelm.

"Have you seen my Andreas, Master Good-for-nothing?" he asked.

"He was standing listening to the musicians," replied Adrian, released
himself from the captain's grasp, and vanished among the crowd.

"A nimble lad," said the fencing-master.  "My boy is standing with the
musicians again.  He has nothing but your art in  his mind.  He would
rather blow on a comb than comb his hair with it, he's always tooting on
every leaf and pipe, makes triangles of broken sword-blades, and not even
a kitchen pot is sate from his drumming; in short there's nothing but
singsong in the good-for-nothing fellow's head; he wants to be a musician
or something of the sort."

"Right, right!"  replied Wilhelm eagerly; "he has a fine ear and the best
voice in the choir."

"The matter must be duly considered," replied the captain, "and you, if
anybody, are the person to tell us what he can accomplish in your art.
If you have time this evening, Herr Wilhelm, come to me at the watch
house, I should like to speak to you.  To be sure, you'll hardly find me
before ten o'clock.  I have a stricture in my throat again, and on such
days--Roland, my fore man!"

The captain cleared his throat loudly and vehemently.  "I am at your
service," said Wilhelm, "for the night is long, but I won't let you go
now until I know what you mean by your fore man Roland."

"Very well, it's not much of a story, and perhaps you won't understand.
Come in here; I can tell it better over a mug of beer, and the legs rebel
if they're deprived of rest four nights in succession."

When the two men were seated opposite to each other in the tap-room, the
fencing-master pushed his moustache away from his lips, and began:  "How
long ago is it-?  We'll say fifteen years, since I was riding to Haarlem
with the innkeeper Aquarius, who as you know, is a learned man and has
all sorts of old stuff and Latin manuscripts.  He talks well, and when
the conversation turned upon our meeting with many things in life that we
fancy we have already seen, remarked that this could be easily explained,
for the human soul was an indestructible thing, a bird that never dies.
So long as we live it remains with us, and when we die flies away and is
rewarded or punished according to its deserts; but after centuries, which
are no more to the Lord than the minutes in which I empty this fresh mug
--one more, bar-maid--the merciful Father releases it again, and it
nestles in some new born child.  This made me laugh; but he was not at
all disturbed and told the story of an old Pagan, a wonderfully wise
chap, who knew positively that his soul had formerly lodged in the body
of a mighty hero.  This same hero also remembered exactly where, during
his former life, he had hung his shield, and told his associates.  They
searched and found the piece of armor, with the initials of the Christian
and surname which had belonged to the philosopher in his life as a
soldier, centuries before.  This puzzled me, for you see--now don't
laugh--something had formerly happened to me very much like the Pagan's
experience.  I don't care much for books, and from a child have always
read the same one.  I inherited it from my dead father and the work is
not printed, but written.  I'll show it to you some time--it contains the
history of the brave Roland.  Often, when absorbed in these beautiful and
true stories, my cheeks have grown as red as fire, and I'll confess to
you, as I did to my travelling-companion:  If I'm not mistaken, I've sat
with King Charles at the board, or I've worn Roland's chain armor in
battle and in the tourney.  I believe I have seen the Moorish king,
Marsilia, and once when reading how the dying Roland wound his horn in
the valley of the Roncesvalles, I felt such a pain in my throat, that it
seemed as if it would burst, and fancied I had felt the same pain before.
When I frankly acknowledged all this, my companion exclaimed that there
was no doubt my soul had once inhabited Roland's body, or in other words,
that in a former life I had been the Knight Roland."

The musician looked at the fencing-master in amazement and asked: "Could
you really believe that, Captain?"

"Why not," replied the other.  "Nothing is impossible to the Highest.  At
first I laughed in the man's face, but his words followed me; and when I
read the old stories--I needn't strain my eyes much, for at every line I
know beforehand what the next will be--I couldn't help asking myself--In
short, sir, my soul probably once inhabited Roland's body, and that's why
I call him my 'fore man.'  In the course of years, it has become a habit
to swear by him.  Folly, you will think, but I know what I know, and now
I must go.  We will have another talk this evening, but about other
matters.  Yes, everybody in this world is a little crackbrained, but at
least I don't bore other people.  I only show my craze to intimate
friends, and strangers who ask me once about the fore man Roland rarely
do so a second time.  The score, bar-maid--There it is again.  We must
see whether the towers are properly garrisoned, and charge the sentinels
to keep their eyes open.  If you come prepared for battle, you may save
yourself a walk, I'll answer for nothing to-day.  You will probably pass
the new Rhine.  Just step into my house, and tell my wife she needn't
wait supper for me.  Or, no, I'll attend to that myself; there's
something in the air, you'll see it, for I have the Roncesvalles throat
again."




CHAPTER XVII.

In the big watch-house that had been erected beside the citadel, during
the siege of the city, raised ten months before, city-guards and
volunteers sat together in groups after sunset, talking over their beer
or passing the time in playing cards by the feeble light of thin tallow
candles.

The embrasure where the officers' table stood was somewhat better
lighted.  Wilhelm, who, according to his friend's advice, appeared in the
uniform of an ensign of the city-guards, seated himself at the empty
board just after the clock in the steeple had struck ten.  While ordering
the waiter to bring him a mug of beer, Captain Allertssohn appeared with
Junker von Warmond, who had taken part in the consultation at Peter Van
der Werff's, and bravely earned his captain's sash two years before at
the capture of Brill.  As this son of one of the richest and most
aristocratic families in Holland, a youth whose mother had borne the name
of Egmont, entered, he drew his hand, encased in a fencing glove, from
the captain's arm and said, countermanding the musician's order:

"Nothing of that sort, waiter!  The little keg from the Wurzburger Stein
can't be empty yet.  We'll find the bottom of it this evening.  What do
you say, Captain?"

"Such an arrangement will lighten the keg and not specially burden us,"
replied the other.  "Good-evening, Herr Wilhelm, punctuality adorns the
soldier.  People are beginning to understand how much depends upon it.
I have posted the men, so that they can overlook the country in every
direction.  I shall have them relieved from time to time, and at
intervals look after them myself.  This is good liquor, Junker.  All
honor to the man who melts his gold into such a fluid.  The first glass
must be a toast to the Prince."

The three men touched their glasses, and soon after drank to the liberty
of Holland and the prosperity of the good city of Leyden.  Then the
conversation took a lively turn, but duty was not forgotten, for at the
end of half an hour the captain rose to survey the horizon himself and
urge the sentinels to vigilant watchfulness.

When he returned, Wilhelm and Junker von Warmond were so engaged in eager
conversation, that they did not notice his entrance.  The musician was
speaking of Italy, and Allertssohn heard him exclaim impetuously:

"Whoever has once seen that country can never forget it, and when I am
sitting on the house-top with my doves, my thoughts only too often fly
far away with them, and my eyes no longer see our broad, monotonous
plains and grey, misty sky."

"Oh! ho!  Meister Wilhelm," interrupted the captain, throwing himself
into the arm-chair and stretching out his booted legs.  "Oh! ho!  This
time I've discovered the crack in your brain.  Italy, always Italy!  I
know Italy too, for I've been in Brescia, looking for good steel sword-
blades for the Prince and other nobles, I crossed the rugged Apennines
and went to Florence to see fine pieces of armor.  From Livorno I went by
sea to Genoa, where I obtained chased gold and silverwork for shoulder-
belts and sheaths.  Truth is truth the brown-skinned rascals can do fine
work.  But the country--the country!  Roland, my fore man--how any
sensible man can prefer it to ours is more than I understand."

"Holland is our mother," replied von Warmond.  "As good sons we believe
her the best of women; yet we can admit, without shame, that there are
more beautiful ones in the world."

"Do you blow that trumpet too?"  exclaimed the fencing-master, pushing
his glass angrily further upon the table.  Did you ever cross the Alps?"

"No, but--"

"But you believe the color-daubers of the artist guild, whose eyes are
caught by the blue of the sky and sea, or the musical gentry who allow
themselves to be deluded by the soft voices and touching melodies there,
but you would do well to listen to a quiet man too for once."

"Go on, Captain."

"Very well.  And if anybody can get an untruthful word out of me, I'll
pay his score till the Day of Judgment.  I'll begin the story at the
commencement.  First you must cross the horrible Alps.  There you see
barren, dreary rocks, cold snow, wild glacier torrents on which no boat
can be used.  Instead of watering meadows, the mad waves fling stones on
their banks.  Then we reach the plains, where it is true many kinds of
plants grow.  I was there in June, and made my jokes about the tiny
fields, where small trees stood, serving as props for the vines.  It
didn't look amiss, but the heat, Junker, the heat spoiled all pleasure.
And the dirt in the taverns, the vermin, and the talk about bravos, who
shed the blood of honest Christians in the dark for a little paltry
money.  If your tongue dries up in your mouth, you'll find nothing but
hot wine, not a sip of cool beer.  And the dust, gentlemen, the frightful
dust.  As for the steel in Brescia--it's worthy of all honor.  But the
feather was stolen from my hat in the tavern, and the landlord devoured
onions as if they were white bread.  May God punish me if a single piece
of honest beef, such as my wife can set before me every day--and we don't
live like princes--ever came between my teeth.

"And the butter, Junker, the butter!  We burn oil in lamps, and grease
door-hinges with it, when they creak, but the Italians use it to fry
chickens and fish.  Confound such doings!"

"Beware, Captain," cried Wilhelm, "or I shall take you at your word and
you'll be obliged to pay my score for life.  Olive-oil is a pure, savory
seasoning."

"For a man that likes it.  I commend Holland butter.  Olive-oil has its
value for polishing steel, but butter is the right thing for roasting and
frying; so that's enough!  But I beg you to hear me farther.  From
Lombardy I went to Bologna, and then crossed the Apennines.  Sometimes
the road ascended, then suddenly plunged downward again, and it's a queer
pleasure, which, thank God, we are spared in this country, to sit in the
saddle going down a mountain.  On the right and left, lofty cliffs tower
like walls.  Your breathing becomes oppressed in the narrow valleys, and
if you want to get a distant view--there's nothing to be seen, for
everywhere some good-for-nothing mountain thrusts itself directly before
your nose.  I believe the Lord created those humps for a punishment to
men after Adam's fall.  On the sixth day of creation the earth was level.
It was in August, and when the noon sun was reflected from the rocks, the
heat was enough to kill one; it's a miracle, that I'm not sitting beside
you dried up and baked.  The famous blue of the Italian sky!  Always the
same!  We have it here in this country too, but it alternates with
beautiful clouds.  There are few things in Holland I like better than our
clouds.  When the rough Apennines at last lay behind me, I reached the
renowned city of Florence."

"And can you deny it your approval?"  asked the musician.

"No, sir, there are many proud, stately palaces and beautiful churches
and no lack of silk and velvet everywhere, the trade of cloth-weaving too
is flourishing; but my health, my health was not good in your Florence,
principally on account of the heat, and besides I found many things
different from what I expected.  In the first place, there's the river
Arno!  The stream is a puddle, nothing but a puddle!  Do you know what
the water looks like?  Like the pools that stand between the broken
fragments and square blocks in a stonecutter's yard, after a heavy
thunder-shower."

"The score, Captain, the score!"

"I mean the yard of a stone-cutter, who does a large business, and pools
of tolerable width.  Will you still contradict me if I maintain--the Arno
is a shallow, narrow stream, just fit to sail a boy's bark-boat.  It
spreads over a wide surface of grey pebbles, very much as the gold fringe
straggles over the top of Junker von Warmond's fencing-glove."

"You saw it at the end of a hot summer," replied Wilhelm, "it's very
different in spring."

"Perhaps so; but I beg you to remember the Rhine, the Meuse, and our
other rivers, even the Marne, Drecht and whatever the smaller streams are
called.  They remain full and bear stately ships at all seasons of the
year.  Uniform and reliable is the custom of this country; to-day one
way, to-morrow another, is the Italian habit.  It's just the same with
the blades in the fencing-school."

"The Italians wield dangerous weapons," said von Warmond.

"Very true, but they bend to and fro and lack firmness.  I know what I'm
talking about, for I lodged with my colleague Torelli, the best fencing-
master in the city.  I'll say nothing of the meals he set before me.