away and silently left the room.  Peter Van der Werff did not follow her,
but went quietly into his study and strove to reflect upon many things,
that concerned his office, but his thoughts constantly reverted to Maria.
His love oppressed him as if it were a crime, and he seemed to himself
like a courier, who gathers flowers by the way-side and in this idling
squanders time and forgets the object of his mission.  His heart felt
unspeakably heavy and sad, and it seemed almost like a deliverance when,
just before midnight, the bell in the Tower of Pancratius raised its
evilboding voice.  In danger, he knew, he would feel and think of nothing
except what duty required of him, so with renewed strength he took his
hat from the hook and left the house with a steady step.

In the street he met Junker Van Duivenvoorde, who summoned him to the
Hohenort Gate, before which a body of Englishmen had again appeared; a
few brave soldiers who, in a fierce, bloody combat, had held Alfen and
the Gouda sluice against the Spaniards until their powder was exhausted
and necessity compelled them to yield or seek safety in flight.  The
burgomaster followed the officer and ordered the gates to be opened to
the brave soldiers.  They were twenty in number, among them the
Netherland Captain Van der Iaen, and a Young German officer.  Peter
commanded, that they should have shelter for the night in the town-hall
and the guard-house at the gate.  The next morning suitable quarters
would be found for them in the houses of the citizens.  Janus Dousa
invited the captain to lodge with him, the German went to Aquanus's
tavern.  All were ordered to report to the burgomaster at noon the next
day, to be assigned to quarters and enrolled among the volunteer troops.

The ringing of the alarm-bell in the tower also disturbed the night's
rest of the ladies in the Van der Werff household.  Barbara sought Maria,
and neither returned to their rooms until they had learned the cause of
the ringing and soothed Henrica.

Maria could not sleep.  Her husband's purpose of separating from her
during the impending danger, had stirred her whole soul, wounded her
to the inmost depths of her heart.  She felt humiliated, and, if not
misunderstood, at least unappreciated by the man for whose sake she
rejoiced, whenever she perceived a lofty aspiration or noble emotion in
her own soul.  What avail is personal loveliness to the beautiful wife of
a blind man; of what avail to Maria was the rich treasure buried in her
bosom, if her husband would not see and bring it to the surface!  "Show
him, tell him how lofty are your feelings," urged love; but womanly pride
exclaimed: "Do not force upon him what he disdains to seek."

So the hours passed, bringing her neither sleep, peace, nor the desire to
forget the humiliation inflicted upon her.

At last Peter entered the room, stepping lightly and cautiously, in order
not to wake her.  She pretended to be asleep, but with half-closed eyes
could see him distinctly.  The lamp-light fell upon his face, and the
lines she had formerly perceived looked like deep shadows between his
eyes and mouth.  They impressed upon his features the stamp of heavy,
sorrowful anxiety, and reminded Maria of the "too hard" and "if I can
only bear it," he had murmured in his sleep the night before.  Then he
approached her bed and stood there a long time; she no longer saw him,
for she kept her eyes tightly closed, but the first loving glance, with
which he gazed down upon her, had not escaped her notice.  It continued
to beam before her mental vision, and she thought she felt that he was
watching and praying for her as if she were a child.

Sleep had long since overpowered her husband, while Maria lay gazing at
the glimmering dawn, as wakeful as if it were broad day.  For the sake of
his love she would forgive much, but she could not forget the humiliation
she had experienced.  "A toy," she said to herself, "a work of art which
we enjoy, is placed in security when danger threatens the house; the axe
and the bread, the sword and the talisman that protects us, in short
whatever we cannot dispense with while we live, we do not release from
our hands till death comes.  She was not necessary, indispensable to him.
If she had obeyed his wish and left him, then--yes, then--"

Here the current of her thoughts was checked, for the first time she
asked herself the question: "Would he have really missed your helping
hand, your cheering word?"

She turned restlessly, and her heart throbbed anxiously, as she told
herself that she had done little to smooth his rugged pathway.  The vague
feeling, that he had not been entirely to blame, if she had not found
perfect happiness by his side, alarmed her.  Did not her former conduct
justify him in expecting hindrance rather than support and help in
impending days of severest peril?

Filled with deep longing to obtain a clear view of her own heart, she
raised herself on her pillows and reviewed her whole former life.

Her mother had been a Catholic in her youth, and had often told her how
free and light-hearted she had felt, when she confided everything that
can trouble a woman's heart to a silent third person, and received from
the lips of God's servant the assurance that she might now begin a new
life, secure of forgiveness.  "It is harder for us now," her mother said
before her first communion, "for we of the Reformed religion are referred
to ourselves and our God, and must be wholly at peace with ourselves
before we approach the Lord's table.  True, that is enough, for if we
frankly and honestly confess to the judge within our own breasts all that
troubles our consciences, whether in thought or deed, and sincerely
repent, we shall be sure of forgiveness for the sake of the Saviour's
wounds."

Maria now prepared for this silent confession, and sternly and pitilessly
examined her conduct.  Yes, she had fixed her gaze far too steadily upon
herself, asked such and given little.  The fault was recognized, and now
the amendment should begin.

After this self-inspection, her heart grew lighter, and when she at last
turned away from the morning-light to seek sleep, she looked forward with
pleasure to the affectionate greeting she meant to offer Peter in the
morning; but she soon fell asleep and when she woke, her husband had long
since left the house.

As usual, she set Peter's study in order before proceeding to any other
task, and while doing so, cast a friendly glance at the dead Eva's
picture.  On the writing-table lay the bible, the only book not connected
with his business affairs, that her husband ever read.  Barbara sometimes
drew comfort and support from the volume, but also used it as an oracle,
for when undecided low to act she opened it and pointed with her finger
to certain passage.  This usually had a definite meaning and she
generally, though not always, acted as it directed.  To-day she had been
disobedient, for in response to her question whether she might venture to
send a bag of all sorts of dainties to her son, a Beggar of the Sea, in
spite of the Spaniards encircling the city, he had received the words of
Jeremiah: "Their tents and their flocks shall they take away: they shall
take to themselves their curtains and all their vessels and their
camels," and yet the bag had been entrusted early that morning to a
widow, who intended to make her escape to Delft with her young daughter,
according to the request of the magistrates.  The gift might perhaps reach
Rotterdam; a mother always hopes for a miracle in behalf of her child.

Before Maria restored the bible to its old place, she opened it at the
thirteenth chapter of the first Epistle of Paul to the Corinthians, which
speaks of love, and was specially dear to her.  There were the words:
"Charity suffereth long and is kind, charity is not easily provoked;" and
"Charity beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things,
endureth all things."

To be kind and patient, to hope and endure all things, was the duty love
imposed upon her.

When she had closed the bible and was preparing to go to Henrica, Barbara
ushered Janus Dousa into the room.  The young nobleman to-day wore armor
and gorget, and looked far more like a soldier than a scientist or poet.
He had sought Peter in vain at the town-hall, and hoped to find him at
home.  One of the messengers sent to the Prince had returned from
Dortrecht with a letter, which conferred on Dousa the office made vacant
by Allertssohn's death.  He was to command not only the city-guard, but
all the armed force.  He had accepted the appointment with cheerful
alacrity, and requested Maria to inform her husband.

"Accept my congratulations," said the burgomaster's wife.  "But what will
now become of your motto: 'Ante omnia Musae?'"

"I shall change the words a little and say: 'Omnia ante Musas."

"Do you understand that jargon, child?"  asked Barbara.

"A passport will be given the Muses," replied Maria gaily.

Janus was pleased with the ready repartee and exclaimed: "How bright and
happy you look!  Faces free from care are rare birds in these days."

Maria blushed, for she did not know how to interpret the words of the
nobleman, who understood how to reprove with subtle mockery, and answered
naively: "Don't think me frivolous, Junker.  I know the seriousness of
the times, but I have just finished a silent confession and discovered
many bad traits in my character, but also the desire to replace them with
more praiseworthy ones."

"There, there," replied Janus.  "I knew long ago that you had formed a
friendship in the Delft school with my old sage.  'Know thyself,' was the
Greek's principal lesson, and you wisely obey it.  Every silent
confession, every desire for inward purification, must begin with the
purpose of knowing ourselves and, if in so doing we unexpectedly
encounter things which tend to make our beloved selves uncomely, and have
the courage to find them just as hideous in ourselves as in others--"

"Abhorrence will come, and we shall have taken the first step towards
improvement."

"No, dear lady, we shall then stand on one of the higher steps.  After
hours of long, deep thought, Socrates perceived--do you know what?"

"That he knew nothing at all.  I shall arrive at this perception more
speedily."

"And the Christian learns it at school," said Barbara, to join in the
conversation.  "All knowledge is botchwork."

"And we are all sinners," added Janus.  "That's easily said, dear madam,
and easily understood, when others are concerned.  'He is a sinner' is
quickly uttered, but 'I am a sinner' escapes the lips with more
difficulty, and whoever does exclaim it with sorrow, in the stillness of
his own quiet room, mingles the white feathers of angels' wings with the
black pinions of the devil.  Pardon me!  In these times everything
thought and said is transformed into solemn earnest.  Mars is here, and
the cheerful Muses are silent.  Remember me to your husband, and tell
him, that Captain Allertssohn's body has been brought in and to-morrow is
appointed for the funeral."

The nobleman took his leave, and Maria, after visiting her patient and
finding her well and bright, sent Adrian and Bessie into the garden
outside the city-wall to gather flowers and foliage, which she intended
to help them weave into wreaths for the coffin of the brave soldier.  She
herself went to the captain's widow.




CHAPTER XXII.

The burgomaster's wife returned home just before dinner, and found a
motley throng of bearded warriors assembled in front of the house, they
were trying to make themselves intelligible in the English language to
some of the constables, and when the latter respectfully saluted Maria,
raised their hands to their morions also.

She pleasantly returned the greeting and passed into the entry, where the
full light of noon streamed in through the open door.

Peter had assigned quarters to the English soldiers outside, and after a
consultation with the new commandant, Jan Van der Does, gave them
officers.  They were probably waiting for their comrades, for when the
young wife had ascended the first steps of the staircase and looked
upward, she found the top of the narrow flight barred by the tall figure
of a soldier.  The latter had his back towards her and was showing Bessie
his dark velvet cap, surrounded by rectangular teeth, above which floated
a beautiful light-blue ostrich-plume.  The child seemed to have formed a
close friendship with the soldier, for, although the latter was refusing
her something, the little girl laughed gaily.

Maria paused irresolutely a moment; but when the child snatched the gay
cap and put it on her own curls, she thought she must check her and
exclaimed warningly: "Why, Bessie, that is no plaything for children."

The soldier turned, stood still a moment in astonishment, raised his hand
to his forehead, and then, with a few hurried bounds, sprang down the
stairs and rushed up to the burgomaster's wife.  Maria had started back
in surprise; but he gave her no time to think, for stretching out both
hands he exclaimed in an eager, joyous tone, with sparkling eyes: "Maria!
Jungfrau Maria!  You here!  This is what I call a lucky day!"  The young
wife had instantly recognized the soldier and willingly laid her right
hand in his, though not without a shade of embarrassment.

The officer's clear, blue eyes sought hers, but she fixed her gaze on the
floor, saying: "I am no longer what I was, the young girl has become a
housewife."

"A housewife!"  he exclaimed.  "How dignified that sounds!  And yet!
Yet!  You are still Jungfrau Maria!  You haven't changed a hair.  That's
just the way you bent your head at the wedding in Delft, the way you
raised your hands, lowered your eyes--you blushed too, just as prettily."

There was a rare melody in the voice which uttered these words with
joyous, almost childlike freedom, which pleased Maria no less than the
officer's familiar manner annoyed her.  With a hasty movement she raised
her head, looked steadily into the young man's handsome face and said
with dignity:

"You see only the exterior, Junker von Dornburg; three years have made
many changes within."

"Junker von Dornburg," he repeated, shaking his waving locks.  "I was
Junker Georg in Delft.  Very different things have happened to us, dear
lady, very different things.  You see I have grown a tolerable, though
not huge moustache, am stouter, and the sun has bronzed my pink and white
boyish face--in short: my outer man has changed for the worse, but within
I am just the same as I was three years ago."

Maria felt the blood again mounting into her cheeks, but she did not wish
to blush and answered hastily: "Standing still is retrograding, so you
have lost three beautiful years, Herr von Dornburg."

The officer looked at Maria in perplexity, and then said more gravely
than before:

"Your jest is more opportune, than you probably suppose; I had hoped to
find you again in Delft, but powder was short in Alfen, so the Spaniard
will probably reach your native city sooner than we.  Now a kind fate
brings me to you here; but let me be honest--What I hope and desire
stands clearly before my eyes, echoes in my soul, and when I thought of
our meeting, I dreamed you would lay both hands in mine and, instead of
greeting me with witty words, ask the old companion of happy hours, your
brother Leonhard's best friend: 'Do you still remember our dead?'  And
when I had told you: 'Yes, yes, yes, I have never forgotten him,' then I
thought the mild lustre of your eyes--Oh, oh, how I thank you!  The dear
orbs are floating in a mist of tears.  You are not so wholly changed as
you supposed, Frau Maria, and if I loyally remember the past, will you
blame me for it?"

"Certainly not," she answered  cordially.  "And now that you speak to me
so, I will with pleasure again call you Junker Georg, and as Leonhard's
friend and mine, invite you to our house."

"That will be delightful," he cried cordially.  "I have so much to ask
you and, as for myself--alas, I wish I had less to tell."

"Have you seen my husband?" asked Maria.

"I know nobody in Leyden," he replied, "except my learned, hospitable
host, and the doge of this miniature Venice, so rich in water and
bridges."

Georg pointed up the stair-case.  Maria blushed again as she said:

"Burgomaster Van der Werff is my husband."

The nobleman was silent for a short time, then he said quickly:

"He received me kindly.  And the pretty elf up yonder?"

"His child by his first marriage, but now mine also.  How do you happen
to call her the elf?"

"Because she looks as if she had been born among white flowers in the
moonlight, and because the afterglow of the sunrise, from which the elves
flee, crimsoned her cheeks when I caught her."

"She has already received the name once," said Maria.  "May I take you to
my husband?"

"Not now, Frau Van der Werff, for I must attend to my men outside, but
to-morrow, if you will allow me."

Maria found the dishes smoking on the dining-table.  Her family had
waited for her, and, heated by the rapid walk at noon, excited by her
unexpected meeting with the young German, she opened the door of the
study and called to her husband:

"Excuse me!  I was detained.  It is very late."

"We were very willing to wait," he answered kindly, approaching her.
Then all she had resolved to do returned to her memory and, for the first
time since her marriage, she raised her husband's hand to her lips.  He
smilingly withdrew it, kissed her on the forehead, and said:

"It is delightful to have you here."

"Isn't it?"  she asked, gently shaking her finger at him.

"But we are all here now, and dinner is waiting."

"Come then," she answered gaily.  "Do you know whom I met on the stairs?"

"English soldiers."

"Of course, but among them Junker von Dornburg."

"He called on me.  A handsome fellow, whose gayety is very attractive,
a German from the evangelical countries."

"Leonhard's best friend.  Don't you know?  Surely I've told you about
him.  Our guest at Jacoba's wedding."

"Oh! yes.  Junker Georg.  He tamed the chestnut horse for the Prince's
equerry."

"That was a daring act," said Maria, drawing a long breath.

"The chestnut is still an excellent horse," replied Peter.  "Leonhard
thought the Junker, with his gifts and talents, would lift the world out
of its grooves; I remember it well, and now the poor fellow must remain
quietly here and be fed by us.  How did he happen to join the Englishmen
and take part in the war?"

"I don't know; he only told me that he had had many experiences."

"I can easily believe it.  He is living at the tavern; but perhaps we can
find a room for him in the side wing, looking out upon the court-yard."

"No, Peter," cried the young wife eagerly.  "There is no room in order
there."

"That can be arranged later.  At any rate we'll invite him to dinner to-
morrow, he may have something to tell us.  There is good marrow in the
young man.  He begged me not to let him remain idle, but make him of use
in the service.  Jan Van der Does has already put him in the right place,
the new commandant looks into people's hearts."

Barbara mingled in the conversation, Peter, though it was a week-day,
ordered a jug of wine to be brought instead of the beer, and an event
that had not occurred for weeks happened: the master of the house sat at
least fifteen minutes with his family after the food had been removed,
and told them of the rapid advance of the Spaniards, the sad fate of the
fugitive Englishmen, who had been disarmed and led away in sections, the
brave defence the Britons, to whose corps Georg belonged, had made at
Alfen, and of another hot combat in which Don Gaytan, the right-hand and
best officer of Valdez, was said to have fallen.  Messengers still went
and came on the roads leading to Delft, but to-morrow these also would
probably be blocked by the enemy.

He always addressed everything he said to Maria, unless Barbara expressly
questioned him, and when he at last rose from the table, ordered a good
roast to be prepared the next day for the guest he intended to invite.
Scarcely had the door of his room closed behind him, when little Bessie
ran up to Maria, threw her arms around her and asked:

"Mother, isn't Junker Georg the tall captain with the blue feather, who
ran down-stairs so fast to meet you?"

"Yes, child."

"And he's coming to dinner to-morrow!  He's coming, Adrian."

The child clapped her hands in delight and then ran to Barbara to exclaim
once more:

"Aunt Barbel, did you hear?  He's coming!"

"With the blue feather," replied the widow.

"And he has curls, curls as long as Assendelft's little Clara.  May I go
with you to see Cousin Henrica?"

"Afterwards, perhaps," replied Maria.  "Go now, children, get the flowers
and separate them carefully from the leaves.  Trautchen will bring some
hoops and strings, and then we'll bind the wreaths."

Junker Georg's remark, that this was a lucky day, seemed to be verified;
for the young wife found Henrica bright and free from pain.  With the
doctor's permission, she had walked up and down her room several times,
sat a longer time at the open window, relished her chicken, and when
Maria entered, was seated in the softly-cushioned arm-chair, rejoicing in
the consciousness of increasing strength.

Maria was delighted at her improved appearance, and told her how well she
looked that day.

"I can return the compliment," replied Henrica.  "You look very happy.
What has happened to you?"

"To me?  Oh!  my husband was more cheerful than usual, and there was a
great deal to tell at dinner.  I've only come to enquire for your health.
I will see you later.  Now I must go with the children to a sorrowful
task."

"With the children?  What have the little elf and Signor Salvatore to do
with sorrow?"

"Captain Allertssohn will be buried to-morrow, and we are going to make
some wreaths for the coffin."

"Make wreaths!"  cried Henrica, "I can teach you that!  There, Trautchen,
take the plate and call the little ones."

The servant went away, but Maria said anxiously: "You will exert yourself
too much again, Henrica."

"I?  I shall be singing again to-morrow.  My preserver's potion does
wonders, I assure you.  Have you flowers and oak-leaves enough?"

"I should think so."

At the last words the door opened and Bessie cautiously entered the room,
walking on tiptoe as she had been told, went up to Henrica, received a
kiss from her, and then asked eagerly:

"Cousin Henrica, do you know?  Junker Georg, with the blue feather, is
coming again to-morrow and will dine with us."

"Junker Georg?"  asked the young lady.

Maria interrupted the child's reply, and answered in an embarrassed tone:

"Herr von Domburg, an officer who came to the city with the Englishmen,
of whom I spoke to you--a German--an old acquaintance.  Go and arrange
the flowers with Adrian, Bessie, then I'll come and help you."

"Here, with Cousin Henrica," pleaded the child.

"Yes, little elf, here; and we'll both make the loveliest wreath you ever
saw."

The child ran out, and this time, in her delight, forgot to shut the door
gently.

The young wife gazed out of the window.  Henrica watched her silently for
a time and then exclaimed:

"One word, Frau Maria.  What is going on in the court-yard?  Nothing?
And what has become of the happy light in your eyes?  Your house isn't
swarming with guests; why did you wait for Bessie to tell me about Junker
Georg, the German, the old acquaintance?"

"Let that subject drop, Henrica."

"No, no!  Do you know what I think?  The storm of war has blown to your
house the young madcap, with whom you spent such happy hours at your
sister's wedding.  Am I right or wrong?  You needn't blush so deeply."

"It is he," replied Maria gravely.  "But if you love me, forget what I
told you about him, or deny yourself the idle amusement of alluding to
it, for if you should still do so, it would offend me."

"Why should I!  You are the wife of another."

"Of another whom I honor and love, who trusts me and himself invited the
Junker to his house.  I have liked the young man, admired his talents,
been anxious when he trifled with his life as if it were a paltry leaf,
which is flung into the river."

"And now that you have seen him again, Maria?"

"Now I know, what my duty is.  Do you see, that my peace here is not
disturbed by idle gossip."

"Certainly not, Maria; yet I am still curious about this Chevalier Georg
and his singing.  Unfortunately we shan't be long together.  I want to go
home."

"The doctor will not allow you to travel yet."

"No matter.  I shall go as soon as I feel well enough.  My father is
refused admittance, but your husband can do much, and I must speak with
him."

"Will you receive him to-morrow?"

"The sooner the better, for he is your husband and, I repeat, the ground
is burning under my feet."

"Oh!"  exclaimed Maria.

"That sounds very sad," cried Henrica.  "Do you want to hear, that I
shall find it hard to leave you?  I shouldn't go yet; but my sister Anna,
she is now a widow--Thank God, I should like to say, but she is suffering
want and utterly deserted.  I must speak to my father about her, and go
forth from the quiet haven into the storm once more."

"My husband will come to you," said Maria.

"That's right, that's right!  Come in, children!  Put the flowers on the
table yonder.  You, little elf, sit down on the stool and you, Salvatore,
shall give me the flowers.  What does this mean?  I really believe the
scamp has been putting perfumed oil on his curly head.  In honor of me,
Salvatore?  Thank you!--We shall need the hoops later.  First we'll make
bouquets, and then bind them with the leaves to the wood.  Sing me a song
while we are working, Maria.  The first one!  I can bear it to-day."




CHAPTER XXIII.

Half Leyden had followed the brave captain's coffin, and among the other
soldiers, who rendered the last honors to the departed, was Georg von
Dornburg.  After the funeral, the musician Wilhelm led the son of the
kind comrade, whom so many mourned, to his house.  Van der Werff found
many things to be done after the burial, but reserved the noon hour; for
he expected the German to dine.

The burgomaster, as usual, sat at the head of the table; the Junker had
taken his place between him and Maria, opposite to Barbara and the
children.

The widow never wearied of gazing at the young man's fresh, bright face,
for although her son could not compare with him in beauty, there was an
honest expression in the Junker's eyes, which reminded her of her
Wilhelm.

Many a question and answer had already been exchanged between those
assembled round the board, many a pleasant memory recalled, when Peter,
after the dishes had been removed and a new jug with better wine placed
on the table, filled the young nobleman's glass again, and raised his
own.

"Let us drink this bumper," he cried, gazing at Georg with sincere
pleasure in his eyes, "let us drink to the victory of the good cause,
for which you too voluntarily draw your sword.  Thanks for the vigorous
pledge.  Drinking is also an art, and the Germans are masters of it."

"We learn it in various places, and not worst at the University of Jena."

"All honor to the doctors and professors, who bring their pupils up to
the standard of my dead brother-in-law, and judging from this sample
drink, you also."

"Leonhard was my teacher in the 'ars bibendi.'  How long ago it is!"

"Youth is not usually content," replied Peter, "but when the point in
question concerns years, readily calls 'much,' what seems to older people
'little.' True, many experiences may have been crowded into the last few
years of your life.  I can still spare an hour, and as we are all sitting
so cosily together here, you can tell us, unless you wish to keep silence
on the subject, how you chanced to leave your distant home for Holland,
and your German and Latin books to enlist under the English standard."

"Yes," added Maria, without any trace of embarrassment.  "You still owe
me the story.  Give thanks, children, and then go."

Adrian gazed beseechingly first at his mother and then at his father, and
as neither forbade him to stay, moved his chair close to his sister, and
both leaned their heads together and listened with wide open eyes, while
the Junker first quietly, then with increasing vivacity, related the
following story:

"You know that I am a native of Thuringia, a mountainous country in the
heart of Germany.  Our castle is situated in a pleasant valley, through
which a clear river flows in countless windings.  Wooded mountains, not
so high as the giants in Switzerland, yet by no means contemptible,
border the narrow boundaries of the valley.  At their feet the fields and
meadows, at a greater height rise pine forests, which, like the huntsman,
wear green robes at all seasons of the year.  In winter, it is true, the
snow cover them with a glimmering white sheet.  When spring comes, the
pines put forth new shoots, as fresh and full of sap as the budding
foliage of your oaks and beeches, and in the meadows by the river it
begins to snow in the warm breezes, for then one fruit-tree blooms beside
another, and when the wind rises, the delicate white petals flutter
through the air and fall among the bright blossoms in the grass, and on
the clear surface of the river.  There are also numerous barren cliffs on
the higher portions of the mountains, and where they towered in the most
rugged, inaccessible ridges, our ancestors built their fastnesses, to
secure themselves from the attacks of their enemies.  Our castle stands
on a mountain-ridge in the midst of the valley of the Saale.  There I was
born, there I sported through the years of my boyhood, learned to read
and guide the pen.  There was plenty of hunting in the forests, we had
spirited horses in the stable, and, wild lad that I was, I rarely went
voluntarily into the school-room, the grey-haired teacher, Lorenz, had to
catch me, if he wanted to get possession of me.  My sisters and Hans, our
youngest child, the boy was only three years younger than I, kept quiet--
I had an older brother too, yet did not have him.  When his beard was
first beginning to grow, he was given by our gracious Duke to Chevalier
von Brand as his esquire, and sent to Spain, to buy Andalusian horses.
John Frederick's father had learned their value in Madrid after the
battle of Muhlburg.  Louis was a merry fellow when he went away, and knew
how to tame the wildest stallion.  It was hard for our parents to believe
him dead, but years elapsed, and as neither he nor Chevalier von Brand
appeared, we were obliged to give him up for lost.  My mother alone could
not do this, and constantly expected his return.  My father called me the
future heir and lord of the castle.  When I had passed beyond boyhood and
understood Cicero tolerably well, I was sent to the University of Jena to
study law, as my uncle, the chancellor, wished me to become a counsellor
of state.

"Oh Jena, beloved Jena!  There are blissful days in May and June, when
only light clouds float in the sky, and all the leaves and flowers are so
fresh and green, that one would think--they probably think so themselves
--that they could never fade and wither; such days in human existence are
the period of joyous German student life.  You can believe it.  Leonhard
has told you enough of Jena.  He understood how to unite work and
pleasure; I, on the contrary, learned little on the wooden benches, for I
rarely occupied them, and the dust of books certainly didn't spoil my
lungs.  But I read Ariosto again and again, devoted myself to singing,
and when a storm of feeling seethed within my breast, composed many songs
for my own pleasure.  We learned to wield the sword too in Jena, and I
would gladly have crossed blades with the sturdy fencing-master
Allertssohn, of whom you have just told me.  Leonhard was older than I,
and when he graduated with honor, I was still very weak in the pandects.
But we were always one in heart and soul, so I went to Holland with him
to attend his wedding.  Ah, those were days!  The theologians in Jena
have actively disputed about the part of the earth, in which the little
garden of Paradise should be sought.  I considered them all fools, and
thought: 'There is only one Eden, and that lies in Holland, and the
fairest roses the dew waked on the first sunny morning, bloom in Delft!'"

At these words Georg shook back his waving locks and hesitated in great
embarrassment, but as no one interrupted him and he saw Barbara's eager
face and the children's glowing cheeks, quietly continued:

"So I came home, and was to learn for the first time, that in life also
beautiful sunny days often end with storms.  I found my father ill, and a
few days after my return he closed his eyes in death.  I had never seen
any human being die, and the first, the very first, was he, my father."