Just before sunrise Georg sprang from his couch, drew out his knapsack, and filled it with his few possessions; but this time the little book found no place with the other articles.

The musician Wilhelm also entered the court-yard at a very early-hour, just as the first workmen were going to the shops. The Junker saw him coming, and met him at the door.

The artist’s face revealed few traces of the want he had endured, but his whole frame was trembling with excitement and his face changed color every moment, as he instantly, and in the utmost haste, told Georg the purpose of his early visit.

Shortly after the arrival of the city messengers, a Spanish envoy had brought Burgomaster Van der Werff a letter written by Junker Nicolas Matanesse, containing nothing but the tidings, that Henrica’s sister had reached Leyderdorp with Belotti and found shelter in the elder Baron Matanesse’s farm-house. She was very ill, and longed to see her sister. The burgomaster had given this letter to the young lady, and Henrica hastened to the musician without delay, to entreat him to help her escape from the city and guide her to the Spanish lines. Wilhelm was undergoing a severe struggle. No sacrifice seemed too great to see Anna again, and what the messenger had accomplished, he too might succeed in doing. But ought he to aid the flight of the young girl detained as hostage by the council, deceive the sentinels at the gate, desert his post?

Since Henrica’s request that Georg would escort her sister from Lugano to Holland, the young man had known everything that concerned the latter, and was also aware of the state of the musician’s heart.

“I must, and yet I ought not,” cried Wilhelm. “I have passed a terrible night; imagine yourself in my place, in the young lady’s.”

“Get a leave of absence until to-morrow,” said Georg resolutely. “When it grows dark, I’ll accompany Henrica with you. She must swear to return to the city in case of a surrender. As for me, I am no longer bound by any oath to serve the English flag. A month ago we received permission to enter the service of the Netherlands. It will only cost me a word with Captain Van der Laen, to be my own master.”

“Thanks, thanks; but the young lady forbade me to ask your assistance.”

“Folly, I shall go with you, and when our goal is reached, fight my way through to the Beggars. Our departure will not trouble the council, for, when Henrica and I are outside, there will be two eaters less in Leyden. The sky is grey; I hope we shall have a dark night. Captain Van Duivenvoorde commands the guard at the Hohenort Gate. He knows us both, and will let us pass. I’ll speak to him. Is the farm-house far inside the village?”

“No, outside on the road to Leyden.”

“Well then, we’ll meet at Aquanus’s tavern at four o’clock.”

“But the young lady—”

“It will be time enough, if she learns at the gate who is to accompany her.”

When Georg came to the tavern at the appointed hour, he learned that Henrica had received another letter from Nicolas. It had been given to the outposts by the Junker himself, and contained only the words “Until midnight, the Spanish watch-word is ‘Lepanto.’ Your father shall know to-day, that Anna is here.”

After the departure from the Hohenort Gate had been fixed for nine o’clock in the evening, Georg went to Captain Van der Laen and the commandant Van der Does, received from the former the discharge he requested, and from Janus a letter to his friend, Admiral Boisot. When he informed his men, that he intended to leave the city and make his way to the Beggars, they declared they would follow, and live or die with him. It was with difficulty that he succeeded in restraining them. Before the town-hall he slackened his pace. The burgomaster was always to be found there at this hour. Should he quit the city without taking leave of him? No, no! And yet—since yesterday he had forfeited the right to look frankly into his eyes. He was afraid to meet him, it seemed as if he were completely estranged from him. So Georg rushed past the town-hall, and said defiantly: “Even if I leave him without a farewell, I owe him nothing; for I must pay for his kindness with cruel suffering, perhaps death. Maria loved me first, and what she is, and was, and ever will be to me, she shall know before I go.”

He returned to his room at twilight, asked the manservant to carry his knapsack to Captain Van Duivenvoorde at the Hohenort Gate, and then went, with his little book in his doublet, to the main building to take leave of Maria. He ascended the staircase slowly and paused in the upper entry.

The beating of his heart almost stopped his breath. He did not know at which door to knock, and a torturing dread overpowered him, so that he stood for several minutes as if paralyzed. Then he summoned up his courage, shook himself, and muttered: “Have I become a coward!” With these words he opened the door leading into the dining-room and entered. Adrian was sitting at the empty table, beside a burning torch, with some books. Georg asked for his mother.

“She is probably spinning in her room,” replied the boy.

“Call her, I have something important to tell her.” Adrian went away, returning with the answer that the Junker might wait in his father’s study.

“Where is Barbara?” asked Georg.

“With Bessie.”

The German nodded, and while pacing up and down beside the dining-room, thought, “I can’t go so. It must come from the heart; once, once more I will hear her say, that she loves me, I will—I will—Let it be dishonorable, let it be worthy of execration, I will atone for it; I will atone for it with my life!”

While Georg was pacing up and down the room, Adrian gathered his books together, saying: “B-r-r-r, Junker, how you look to-day! One might be afraid of you. Mother is in there already. The tinder-box is rattling; she is probably lighting the lamp.”

“Are you busy?” asked Georg. “I’ve finished.”

“Then run over to Wilhelm Corneliussohn and tell him it is settled: we’ll meet at nine, punctually at nine.”

“At Aquarius’s tavern?” asked the boy.

“No, no, he knows; make haste, my lad.”

Adrian was going, but Georg beckoned to him, and said in a low tone: “Can you be silent?”

“As a fried sole.”

“I shall slip out of the city to-day, and perhaps may never return.”

“You, Junker? To-day?” asked the boy.

“Yes, dear lad. Come here, give me a farewell kiss. You must keep this little ring to remember me.” The boy submitted to the kiss, put the ring on his finger, and said with tearful eyes: “Are you in earnest? Yes, the famine! God knows I’d run after you, if it were not for Bessie and mother. When will you come back again?”

“Who knows, my lad! Remember me kindly, do you hear? Kindly! And now run.”

Adrian rushed down the stairs, and a few minutes after the Junker was standing in Peter’s study, face to face with Maria. The shutters were closed, and the sconce on the table had two lighted candles.

“Thanks, a thousand thanks for coming,” said Georg. “You pronounced my sentence yesterday, and to-day—”

“I know what brings you to me,” she answered gently. “Henrica has bidden me farewell, and I must not keep her. She doesn’t wish to have you accompany her, but Meister Wilhelm betrayed the secret to me. You have come to say farewell.”

“Yes, Maria, farewell forever.”

“If it is God’s will, we shall see each other again. I know what is driving you away from here. You are good and noble, Georg, and if there is one thing that lightens the parting, it is this: We can now think of each other without sorrow and anger. You will not forget us, and—you know that the remembrance of you will be cherished here by old and young—in the hearts of all—”

“And in yours also, Maria?”

“In mine also.”

“Hold it firmly. And when the storm has blown out of your path the poor dust, which to-day lives and breathes, loves and despairs, grant it a place in your memory.”

Maria shuddered, for deep despair looked forth with a sullen glow from the eyes that met hers. Seized with an anxious foreboding, she exclaimed: “What are you thinking of, Georg? for Christ’s sake! tell me what is in your mind.”

“Nothing wrong, Maria, nothing wrong. We birds now sing differently. Whoever can saunter, with lukewarm blood and lukewarm pleasures, from one decade to another in peace and honor, is fortunate. My blood flows in a swifter course, and what my eager soul has once clasped with its polyp arms, it will never release until the death-hour comes. I am going, never to return; but I shall take you and my love with me to battle, to the grave.—I go, I go—”

“Not so, Georg, you must not part from me thus.” Then cry: ‘Stay!’ Then say: ‘I am here and pity you!’ But don’t expect the miserable wretch, whom you have blinded, to open his eyes, behold and enjoy the beauties of the world. “Here you stand, trembling and shaking, without a word for him who loves you, for him—him—”

The youth’s voice faltered with emotion and sighing heavily, he pressed his hand to his brow. Then he seemed to recollect himself and continued in a low, sad tone: “Here I stand, to tell you for the last time the state of my heart. You should hear sweet words, but grief and pain will pour bitter drops into everything I say. I have uttered in the language of poetry, when my heart impelled me, that for which dry prose possesses no power of expression. Read these pages, Maria, and if they wake an echo in your soul, oh! treasure it. The honeysuckle in your garden needs a support, that it may grow and put forth flowers; let these poor songs be the espalier around which your memory of the absent one can twine its tendrils and cling lovingly. Read, oh! read, and then say once more: ‘You are dear to me,’ or send me from you.”

“Give it to me,” said Maria, opening the volume with a throbbing heart.

He stepped back from her, but his breath came quickly and his eyes followed hers while she was reading. She began with the last poem but one. It had been written just after Georg’s return the day before, and ran as follows:

The last lines Georg had written with a rapid pen the night before. In them he bewailed his hard fate. She must hear him once, then he would sing her a peerless song. Maria had followed the first verses silently with her eyes, but now her lips began to move and in a low, rapid tone, but audibly she read:

Maria read on, her heart beating more and more violently, her breath coming quicker and quicker, and when she had reached the last verse, tears burst from her eyes, and she raised the book with both hands to hurl it from her and throw her arms around the writer’s neck.

He had been standing opposite to her, as if spellbound, listening blissfully to the lofty flight of his own words. Trembling with passionate emotion, he yet restrained himself until she had raised her eyes from his lines and lifted the book, then his power of resistance flew to the winds and, fairly beside himself, he exclaimed: “Maria, my sweet wife!”

“Wife?” echoed in her breast like a cry of warning, and it seemed as if an icy hand clutched her heart. The intoxication passed away, and as she saw him standing before her with out-stretched arms and sparkling eyes, she shrank back, a feeling of intense loathing of him and her own weakness seized upon her and, instead of throwing the book aside and rushing to meet him, she tore it in halves, saying proudly: “Here are your verses, Junker von Dornburg; take them with you.” Then, maintaining her dignity by a strong effort, she continued in a lower, more gentle tone, “I shall remember you without this book. We have both dreamed; let us now wake. Farewell! I will pray that God may guard you. Give me your hand, Georg, and when you return, we will bid you welcome to our house as a friend.”

With these words Maria turned away from the Junker and only nodded silently, when he exclaimed: “Past! All past!”