“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.”

The last words had escaped Barbara’s lips against her will; for until then she had prudently feigned not to suspect that everything between Maria and her husband was not exactly as it ought to be, though she plainly perceived what was passing in the mind of her young sister-in-law.

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.”