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