Old Fraulein Van Hoogstraten let her fan sink by her side, and said coolly: 

“Were you singing two hours ago—­yes or no?”

“Yes.”

“Then your headache can’t be so very bad, and Denise will dress you.”

“If she comes, I’ll send her away.  When I just took the harp, I did so to sing the pain away.  It was relieved for a few minutes, but now my temples are throbbing with twofold violence.”

“Excuses.”

“Believe what you choose.  Besides—­even if I felt better at this moment than a squirrel in the woods.  I wouldn’t go down to see the gentlemen.  I shall stay here.  I have given my word, and I am a Hoogstraten as well as you.”

Henrica had risen, and her eyes flashed with a gloomy fire at her oppressor.  The old lady waved her fan faster, and her projecting chin trembled.  Then she said curtly: 

“Your word of honor!  So you won’t!  You won’t!”

“Certainly not,” cried the young girl with undutiful positiveness.

“Everybody must have his way,” replied the old lady, turning towards the door.  “What is too wilful is too wilful.  Your father won’t thank you for this.”  With these words Fraulein Van Hoogstraten raised her long train and approached the door.  There she paused, and again glanced enquiringly at Henrica.  The latter doubtless noticed her aunt’s hesitation, but without heeding the implied threat intentionally turned her back.

As soon as the door closed, the young girl sank back into her chair, pressed her forehead against the marble slab and let it remain there a long time.  Then she rose as suddenly and hastily as if obeying some urgent summons, raised the lid of her trunk, tossed the stockings, bodices and shoes, that came into her way, out on the floor, and did not rise until she had found a few sheets of writing-paper which she had laid, before leaving her father’s castle, among the rest of her property.

As she rose from her kneeling posture, she was seized with giddiness, but still kept her feet, carried to the table first the white sheets and a portfolio, then the large inkstand that had already stood several days in her room, and seated herself beside it.

Leaning far back in her chair, she began to write.  The book that served as a desk lay on her knee, the paper on the book.  Creaking and pausing, the goosequill made large, stiff letters on the white surface.  Henrica was not skilled in writing, but to-day it must have been unspeakably difficult for her; her high forehead became covered with perspiration, her mouth was distorted by pain, and whenever she had finished a few lines, she closed her eyes or drank greedily from the water-pitcher that stood beside her.

The large room was perfectly still, but the peace that surrounded her was often disturbed by strange noises and tones, that rose from the dining-hall directly under her chamber.  The clinking of glasses, shrill tittering, loud, deep laughter, single bars of a dissolute love-song, cheers, and then the sharp rattle of a shattered wine glass reached her in mingled sounds.  She did not wish to hear it, but could not escape and clenched her white teeth indignantly.  Yet meantime the pen did not wholly stop.