“I agree with thee, good canon,” rejoined the simple-minded baron:  “we are much addicted to quarrelling with the world, but, after all, when we look closely into the matter, it will commonly be found that the cause of our grievances exists in ourselves.”

“Is there no Providence, father?” exclaimed Adelheid, a little reproachfully for one of her respectful habits and great filial tenderness.  “Can we recall the dead to life, or keep those quick whom God is pleased to destroy?”

“Thou hast me, girl!—­there is a truth in this that no bereaved parent can deny!”

This remark produced an embarrassed pause, during which the Herr Mueller gazed furtively about him, looking from the face of one to that of another, as if seeking for some countenance on which he could rely.  But he turned away to the view of those hills which had been so curiously wrought by the finger of the Almighty, and seemed to lose himself in their contemplation.

“This is some spirit that has been bruised by early indiscretion,” said the Signor Grimaldi, in a low voice, “and whose repentance is strangely mixed with resignation.  I know not whether such a man is most to be envied or pitied.  There is a fearful mixture of resignation and of suffering in his air.”

“He has not the mien of a stabber or a knave,” answered the baron.  “If he comes truly of the Muellers of the Emmen Thal, or even of those of Entlibuch, I should know something of his history.  They are warm burghers, and mostly of fair name.  It is true, that in my youth one of the family got out of favor with the councils, on account of some concealment of their lawful claims in the way of revenue, but the man made an atonement that was deemed sufficient in amount, and the matter was forgotten.  It is not usual, Herr Mueller, to meet citizens in our canton who go for neither Rome nor Calvin.”

“It is not usual, mein Herr, to meet men placed as I am.  Neither Rome nor Calvin is sufficient for me;—­I have need of God!”

“I fear thou hast taken life?”

The stranger bowed, and his face grew livid, seemingly with the intensity of his own thoughts.  Melchior de Willading so disliked the expression, that he turned away his eyes in uneasiness.  The other glanced frequently at the forward part of the bark, and he seemed struggling hard to speak, but, for some strong reason, unable to effect his purpose.  Uncovering himself, at length, he said steadily, as if superior to shame, while he fully felt the import of his communication, but in a voice that was cautiously suppressed—­

“I am Balthazar, of your canton, Herr Baron, and I pray your powerful succor, should those untamed spirits on the forecastle come to discover the truth.  My blood hath been made to curdle to-day whilst listening to their heartless threats and terrible maledictions.  Without this fear, I should have kept my secret,—­for God knows I am not proud of my office!”