Adrian hurried home with his vial, and in his joy at bringing the sick lady relief, forgot her headache and struck the knocker violently against the door. Barbara received him with a by no means flattering greeting, but he was so full of the happiness of possessing the dearly-bought treasure, that he fearlessly interrupted his aunt’s reproving words, by exclaiming eagerly, in the consciousness of his good cause:

“You’ll see; I have something here for the young lady; where is mother?”

Barbara perceived that the boy was the bearer of some good tidings, which engrossed his whole attention, and the fresh happy face pleased her so much, that she forgot to scold and said smiling:

“You make me very curious; what is the need of so much hurry?”

“I’ve bought something; is mother up-stairs?”

“Yes, show me what you have bought.”

“A remedy. Infallible, I tell you; a remedy for headache.”

“A remedy for headache?” asked the widow in astonishment. “Who told you that fib?”

“Fib?” repeated the boy, laughing. “I got it below cost.”

“Show it to me, boy,” said Barbara authoritatively, snatching at the vial, but Adrian stepped back, hid the medicine behind him, and replied:

“No, aunt; I shall take it to mother myself.”

“Did one ever hear of such a thing!” cried the widow. “Donkeys dance on ropes, school-boys dabble in doctor’s business! Show me the thing at once! We want no quack wares.”

“Quack wares!” replied Adrian eagerly. “It cost all my fair money, and it’s good medicine.”

During this little discussion Doctor Bontius came down-stairs with the burgomaster’s wife. He had heard the boy’s last words and asked sternly:

“Where did you get the stuff?”

With these words, he seized the hand of the lad, who did not venture to resist the stern man, took the little vial and printed directions from him and, after Adrian had curtly answered: “From Doctor Morpurgo!” continued angrily:

“The brew is good to be thrown away; only we must take care not to poison the fishes with it, and the thing cost half a florin. You’re a rich young man, Meister Adrian! If you have any superfluous capital again, you can lend it to me.”

These words spoiled the boy’s pleasure, but did not convince him, and he defiantly turned half away from the physician. Barbara understood what was passing in his mind, and whispered compassionately to the doctor and her sister-in-law:

“All his fair money to help the young lady.”

Maria instantly approached the disappointed child, drew his curly head towards her and silently kissed his forehead, while the doctor read the printed label, then without moving a muscle, said as gravely as ever:

“Morpurgo isn’t the worst of quacks, the remedy he prescribes here may do the young lady good after all.” Adrian had been nearer crying than laughing. Now he uttered a sigh of relief, but still clasped Maria’s hand firmly, as he again turned his face towards the doctor, listening intently while the latter continued:

“Two parts buckbeans, one part pepper-wort, and half a part valerian. The latter specially for women. Let it steep in boiling water and drink a cupful cold every morning and evening! Not bad—really not bad. You have found a good remedy, my worthy colleague.

“I had something else to say to you, Adrian. My boys are going to the English riders this evening, and would be glad to have you accompany them. You can begin with the decoction to-day.”

The physician bowed to the ladies and went on; Barbara followed him into the street, asking:

“Are you in earnest about the prescription?”

“Of course, of course,” replied the doctor, “my grandmother used this remedy for headache, and she was a sensible woman. Evening and morning, and the proper amount of sleep.”

Henrica occupied a pretty, tastefully-furnished room. The windows looked out upon the quiet court-yard, planted with trees, adjoining the chamois-leather work shops. She was allowed to sit up part of the day in a cushioned arm-chair, supported by pillows. Her healthy constitution was rapidly rallying. True, she was still weak, and the headache spoiled whole days and nights. Maria’s gentle and thoughtful nature exerted a beneficial influence upon her, and she cheerfully welcomed Barbara, with her fresh face and simple, careful, helpful ways.

When Maria told her about the purchase Adrian had made for her, she was moved to tears; but to the boy she concealed her grateful emotion under jesting words, and greeted him with the exclamation:

“Come nearer, my preserver, and give me your hand.”

Afterwards, she always called him “my preserver” or, as she liked to mingle Italian words with her Dutch, “Salvatore” or “Signor Salvatore.” She was particularly fond of giving the people, with whom she associated, names of her own, and so called Barbara, whose Christian name she thought frightful, “Babetta,” and little slender, pretty Bessie, whose company she specially enjoyed, “the elf.” The burgomaster’s wife only remained “Frau Maria,” and when the latter once jestingly asked the cause of such neglect, Henrica replied that she suited her name and her name her; had she been called Martha, she would probably have named her “Maria.”

The invalid had passed a pleasant, painless day, and when towards evening Adrian went to see the English riders and the fragrance of the blooming lindens and the moonlight found their way through the open windows of her room, she begged Barbara not to bring a light, and invited Maria to sit down and talk with her.

From Adrian and Bessie the conversation turned upon their own childhood. Henrica had grown up among her father’s boon companions, amid the clinking of glasses and hunting-shouts, Maria in a grave burgher household, and what they told each other seemed like tidings from a strange world.

“It was easy for you to become the tall, white lily you are now,” said Henrica, “but I must thank the saints, that I came off as well as I did, for we really grew up like weeds, and if I hadn’t had a taste for singing and the family priest hadn’t been such an admirable musician, I might stand before you in a still worse guise. When will the doctor let me hear you sing?”

“Next week; but you musn’t expect too much. You have too high an opinion of me. Remember the proverb about still waters. Here in the depths it often looks far less peaceful, than you probably suppose.”

“But you have learned to keep the surface calm when it storms; I haven’t. A strange stillness has stolen over me here. Whether I owe it to illness or to the atmosphere that pervades this house, I can’t tell, but how long will it last? My soul used to be like the sea, when the hissing waves plunge into black gulfs, the seagulls scream, and the fishermen’s wives pray on the shore. Now the sea is calm. Don’t be too much frightened, if it begins to rage again.”

At these words Maria clasped the excited girl’s hands, saying beseechingly:

“Be quiet, be quiet, Henrica. You must think only of your recovery now. And shall I confess something? I believe everything hard can be more easily borne, if we can cast it impatiently forth like the sea of which you speak; with me one thing is piled on another and remains lying there, as if buried under the sand.”

“Until the hurricane comes, that sweeps it away. I don’t want to be an evil prophet, but you surely remember these words. What a wild, careless thing I was! Then a day came, that made a complete revolution in my whole nature.”

“Did a false love wound you?” asked Maria modestly.

“No, except the false love of another,” replied Henrica bitterly. “When I was a child this fluttering heart often throbbed more quickly, I don’t know how often. First I felt something more than reverence for the one-eyed chaplain, our music-teacher, and every morning placed fresh flowers on his window, which he never noticed. Then—I was probably fifteen—I returned the ardent glances of Count Brederode’s pretty page. Once he tried to be tender, and received a blow from my riding-whip. Next came a handsome young nobleman, who wanted to marry me when I was barely sixteen, but he was even more heavily in debt than my father, so he was sent home. I shed no tears for him, and when, two months after, at a tournament in Brussels, I saw Don Frederic, the son of the great Duke of Alva, fancied myself as much in love with him as ever any lady worshipped her Amadis, though the affair never went beyond looks. Then the storm, of which I have already spoken, burst, and that put an end to love-making. I will tell you more about this at some future time; I need not conceal it, for it has been no secret. Have you ever heard of my sister? No? She was older than I, a creature-God never created anything more perfect. And her singing! She came to my dead aunt’s, and there—But I won’t excite myself uselessly—in short, the man whom she loved with all the strength of her heart thrust her into misery, and my father cursed and would not stretch out a finger to aid her. I never knew my mother, but through Anna I never missed her. My sister’s fate opened my eyes to men. During the last few years many have wanted me, but I lacked confidence and, still more, love, for I shall never have anything to do with that.”

“Until it finds you,” replied Maria. “It was wrong to speak of such things with you, it excites you, and that is bad.”

“Never mind; it will do me good to relieve my heart. Did you love no one before your husband?”

“Love? No, Henrica, I never really loved any one except him.”

“And your heart waited for the burgomaster, ere it beat faster?”

“No, it had not always remained quiet before; I grew up among social people, old and young, and of course liked some better than others.”

“And surely one best of all.”

“I won’t deny it. At my sister’s wedding, my brother-in-law’s friend, a young nobleman, came from Germany and remained several weeks with us. I liked him, and remember him kindly even now.”

“Have you never heard from him again?”

“No; who knows what has become of him. My brother-in-law expected great things from him, and he possessed many rare gifts, but was reckless, fool-hardy, and a source of constant anxiety to his mother.”

“You must tell me more about him.”

“What is the use, Henrica?”

“I don’t want to talk any more, but I should like to be still, inhale the fragrance of the lindens, and listen, only listen.”

“No, you must go to bed now. I’ll help you undress and, when you have been alone an hour, come back again.”

“One learns obedience in your house, but when my preserver comes home, bring him here. He must tell me about the English riders. There comes Frau Babetta with his decoction. You shall see that I take it punctually.”

The boy returned home late, for he had enjoyed all the glories of the fair with the doctor’s children. He was permitted to pay only a short visit to Henrica, and did not see his father at all, the latter having gone to a night council at Herr Van Bronkhorst’s.

The next morning the fair holidays were to end, school would begin and Adrian had intended to finish his tasks this evening; but the visit to the English riders had interfered, and he could not possibly appear before the rector without his exercise. He frankly told Maria so, and she cleared a place for him at the table where she was sewing, and helped the young scholar with many a word and rule she had learned with her dead brother.

When it lacked only half an hour of midnight, Barbara entered, saying:

“That’s enough now. You can finish the rest early to-morrow morning before school.”

Without waiting for Maria’s reply, she closed the boy’s books and pushed them together.

While thus occupied, the room shook with rude blows on the door of the house. Maria threw down her sewing and started from her seat, while Barbara exclaimed:

“For Heaven’s sake, what is it?” Adrian rushed into his father’s room and opened the window.

The ladies had hurried after him, and before they could question the disturber of the peace, a deep voice called:

“Open, I must come in.”

“What is it?” asked Barbara, who recognized a soldier in the moonlight. “We can’t hear our own voices; stop that knocking.”

“Call the burgomaster!” shouted the messenger, who had been constantly using the knocker. “Quick, woman; the Spaniards are coming.”

Barbara shrieked aloud and beat her hands. Maria turned pale, but without losing her composure, replied: “The burgomaster is not at home, but I’ll send for him. Quick, Adrian, call your father.”

The boy rushed down-stairs, meeting in the entry the man-servant and Trautchen, who had jumped hastily out of bed, throwing on an under-petticoat, and was now trying, with trembling hands, to unlock the door. The man pushed her aside, and as soon as the door creaked on its hinges, Adrian darted out and ran, as if in a race, down the street to the commissioner’s. Arriving before any other messenger, he pressed through the open door into the dining-hall and called breathlessly to the men, who were holding a council over their wine:

“The Spaniards are here!”

The gentlemen hastily rose from their seats. One wanted to rush to the citadel, another to the town-hall and, in the excitement of the moment, no sensible reflection was made. Peter Van der Werff alone maintained his composure and, after Allertssohn’s messenger had appeared and reported that the captain and his men were on the way to Leyderdorp, the burgomaster pointed out that the leaders’ care should now be devoted to the people who had come to the fair. He and Van Hout undertook to provide for them, and Adrian was soon standing with his father and the city clerk among the crowds of people, who had been roused from sleep by the wailing iron voice from the Tower or Pancratius.