“And in fact we risk our lives and fortunes merely for him.”
“My wife said so yesterday.”
“He’ll be the last man to help trade. Believe me, many think as we do, if it were not so, the Beggars’ Song would have sounded louder.”
“There will always be five fools to three wise men,” said the older citizen. “I took good care not to split my mouth.”
“And after all, what great thing is there behind this outcry for freedom? Alva burnt the Bible-readers, De la Marck hangs the priests. My wife likes to go to Mass, but always does so secretly, as if she were committing a crime.”
“We, too, cling to the good old faith.”
“Never mind faith,” said the third. “We are Calvinists, but I take no pleasure in throwing my pennies into Orange’s maw, nor can it gratify me to again tear up the poles before the Cow-gate, ere the wind dries the yarn.”
“Only let us hold together,” advised the older man. “People don’t express their real opinions, and any poor ragged devil might play the hero. But I tell you there will be sensible men enough in every ward, every guild, nay, even in the council, and among the burgomasters.”
“Hush,” whispered the second citizen, “there comes Van der Werff with the city clerk and young Van der Does; they are the worst of all.”
The three persons named came down the broad street, talking eagerly together, but in low tones.
“My uncle is right, Meister Peter,” said Jan Van der Does, the same tall young noble, who, on the morning of that day, had sent Nicolas Van Wibisma home with a kindly warning. “It’s no use, you must seek the Prince and consult with him.”
“I suppose I must,” replied the burgomaster. “I’ll go to-morrow morning.”
“Not to-morrow,” replied Van Hout. “The Prince rides fast, and if you don’t find him in Delft—”
“Do you go first,” urged the burgomaster, “you have the record of our session.”
“I cannot; but to-day you, the Prince’s friend, for the first time lack good-will.”
“You are right, Jan,” exclaimed the burgomaster, “and you shall know what holds me back.”
“If it is anything a friend can do for you, here he stands,” said von Nordwyk.
Van der Werff grasped the hand the young nobleman extended, and answered, smiling: “No, my lord, no. You know my young wife. To-day we should have celebrated the first anniversary of our marriage, and amid all these anxieties I disgracefully forgot it.”
“Hard, hard,” said Van Hout, softly. Then he drew himself up to his full height, and added resolutely: “And yet, were I in your place, I would go, in spite of her.”
“Would you go to-day?”
“To-day, for to-morrow it may be too late. Who knows how soon egress from the city may be stopped and, before again venturing the utmost, we must know the Prince’s opinion. You possess more of his confidence than any of us.”
“And God knows how gladly I would bring him a cheering word in these sorrowful hours; but it must not be to-day. The messenger has ridden off on my bay.”
“Then take my chestnut, he is faster too,” said Janus Dousa and Van der Werff answered hastily.
“Thanks, my lord. I’ll send for him early tomorrow morning.”
The blood mounted to Van Hout’s head and, thrusting his hand angrily between his girdle and doublet, he exclaimed: “Send me the chestnut, if the burgomaster will give me leave of absence.”
“No, send him to me,” replied Peter calmly. “What must be, must be; I’ll go to-day.”
Van Hout’s manly features quickly smoothed and, clasping the burgomaster’s right hand in both his, he said joyously:
“Thanks, Herr Peter. And no offence; you know my hot temper. If the time seems long to your young wife, send her to mine.”
“And mine,” added Dousa. “It’s a strange thing about those two little words ‘wish’ and ‘ought.’ The freer and better a man becomes, the more surely the first becomes the slave of the second.
“And yet, Herr Peter, I’ll wager that your wife will confound the two words to-day, and think you have sorely transgressed against the ‘ought.’ These are bad times for the ‘wish.’ ”
Van der Werff nodded assent, then briefly and firmly explained to his friends what he intended to disclose to the Prince.
The three men separated before the burgomaster’s house.
“Tell the Prince,” said Van Hout, on parting, “that we are prepared for the worst, will endure and dare it.”
At these words Janus Dousa measured both his companions with his eyes, his lips quivered as they always did when any strong emotion filled his heart, and while his shrewd face beamed with joy and confidence, he exclaimed: “We three will hold out, we three will stand firm, the tyrant may break our necks, but he shall not bend them. Life, fortune, all that is dear and precious and useful to man, we will resign for the highest of blessings.”
“Ay,” said Van der Werff, loudly and earnestly, while Van Hout impetuously repeated: “Yes, yes, thrice yes.”
The three men, so united in feeling, grasped each other’s hands firmly for a moment. A silent vow bound them in this hour, and when Herr von Nordwyk and Van Hout turned in opposite directions, the citizens who met them thought their tall figures had grown taller still within the last few hours.
The burgomaster went to his wife’s room without delay, but did not find her there.
She had gone out of the gate with his sister.
The maid-servant carried a light into his chamber; he followed her, examined the huge locks of his pistols, buckled on his old sword, put what he needed into his saddle-bags, then, with his tall figure drawn up to its full height, paced up and down the room, entirely absorbed in his task.
Herr von Nordwyk’s chestnut horse was stamping on the pavement before the door, and Hesperus was rising above the roofs.
The door of the house now opened.
He went into the entry and found, not his wife, but Adrian, who had just returned home, told the boy to give his most loving remembrances to his mother, and say that he was obliged to seek the Prince on important business.
Old Trautchen had already washed and undressed little Elizabeth, and now brought him the child wrapped in a coverlet. He kissed the dear little face, which smiled at him out of its queer disguise, pressed his lips to Adrian’s forehead, again told him to give his love to his mother, and then rode down Marendorpstrasse.
Two women, coming from the Rheinsburger gate, met him just as he reached St. Stephen’s cloister. He did not notice them, but the younger one pushed the kerchief back from her head, hastily grasped her companion’s wrist, and exclaimed in a low tone:
“That was Peter!”
Barbara raised her head higher.
“It’s lucky I’m not timid. Let go of my arm. Do you mean the horseman trotting past St. Ursula alley?”
“Yes, it is Peter.”
“Nonsense, child! The bay has shorter legs than that tall camel; and Peter never rides out at this hour.”
“But it was he.”
“God forbid! At night a linden looks like a beechtree. It would be a pretty piece of business, if he didn’t come home to-day.”