“With brown Spanish wine.  There it is.”

“Then let it pour.  When a fellow is wet inside, he can bear a great deal of moisture without.”

“Lead the horses up to the door; I hear the gentlemen.”

The man was not mistaken; for before his companion had succeeded in stopping the larger roan, the voices of his master, Herr Matanesse Van Wibisma, and his son, Nicolas, were heard in the wide entry.

Both were exchanging affectionate farewells with a young girl, whose voice sounded deeper than the halfgrown boy’s.

As the older gentleman thrust his hand through the roan’s mane and was already lifting his foot to put it in the stirrup, the young girl, who had remained in the entry, came out into the street, laid her hand on Wibisma’s arm, and said: 

“One word more, uncle, but to you alone.”

The baron still held his horse’s mane in his hand, exclaiming with a cordial smile: 

“If only it isn’t too heavy for the roan.  A secret from beautiful lips has its weight.”

While speaking, he bent his ear towards his niece, but she did not seem to have intended to whisper, for she approached no nearer and merely lowered her tone, saying in the Italian language: 

“Please tell my father, that I won’t stay here.”

“Why, Henrica!”

“Tell him I won’t do so under any circumstances.”

“Your aunt won’t let you go.”

“In short, I won’t stay.”

“I’ll deliver the message, but in somewhat milder terms, if agreeable to you.”

“As you choose.  Tell him, too, that I beg him to send for me.  If he doesn’t wish to enter this heretic’s nest himself, for which I don’t blame him in the least, he need only send horses or the carriage for me.”

“And your reasons?”

“I won’t weight your baggage still more heavily.  Go, or the saddle will be wet before you ride off”

“Then I’m to tell Hoogstraten to expect a letter.”

“No.  Such things can’t be written.  Besides, it won’t be necessary.  Tell my father I won’t stay with aunt, and want to go home.  Good-bye, Nico.  Your riding-boots and green cloth doublet are much more becoming than those silk fal-lals.”

The young lady kissed her hand to the youth, who had already swung himself into the saddle, and hurried back to the house.  Her uncle shrugged his shoulders, mounted the roan, wrapped the dark cloak closer around him, beckoned Nicolas to his side, and rode on with him in advance of the servants.

No word was exchanged between them, so long as their way led through the city, but outside the gate, Wibisma said: 

“Henrica finds the time long in Leyden; she would like to go back to her father.”

“It can’t be very pleasant to stay with aunt,” replied the youth.

“She is old and sick, and her life has been a joyless one.”

“Yet she was beautiful.  Few traces of it are visible, but her eyes are still like those in the portrait, and besides she is so rich.”