The eyes of the priest and the musician met.  Wilhelm lacked courage to seek to withhold the steward from carrying out his plan, but Damianus summoned up his resolution, laid his hand on the old man’s shoulder, and said: 

“If you wait here a few weeks more, Belotti, you will find the true rest, the peace of a good conscience.  The crown of life is promised to those, who are faithful, unto death.  When these sad days are over, it will be easy to smooth the way to your home.  We shall meet again towards noon, Belotti.  If my assistance is necessary, send for me; old Ambrosius knows where to find me.  May God’s blessing rest upon you, and if you will accept it from me, on you also, Meister Wilhelm.”

After the priest had left the house, Belotti said, sighing: 

“He’ll yet force me to yield to his will.  He abuses his power over souls.  I’m no saint, and what he asks of me—­”

“Is right,” said Wilhelm firmly.

“But you don’t know what it is to throw away, like a pair of worn-out shoes, the dearest hope of a long, sad life.  And for whom, I ask you, for whom?  Do you know my padrona?  Oh! sir, I have experienced in this house things, which your youth does not dream could be possible.  The young lady has wounded you.  Am I right or wrong?”

“You are mistaken, Belotti.”

“Really?  I am glad for your sake, you are a modest artist, but the signorina bears the Hoogstraten name, and that is saying everything.  Do you know her father?”

“No, Belotti.”

“That’s a race-a race!  Have you never heard anything of the story of our signorina’s older sister?”

“Has Henrica an older sister?”

“Yes, sir, and when I think of her.—­Imagine the signorina, exactly like our signorina, only taller, more stately, more beautiful.”

“Isabella!” exclaimed the musician.  A conjecture, which had been aroused since his conversation with Henrica, appeared to be confirmed; he seized the steward’s arm so suddenly and unexpectedly, that the latter drew back, and continued eagerly:  “What do you know of her?  I beseech you, Belotti, tell me all.”

The servant looked up the stairs, then shaking his head, answered: 

“You are probably mistaken.  There has never been an Isabella in this house to my knowledge, but I will gladly place myself at your service.  Come again after sunset, but you must expect to hear no pleasant tale.”

Twilight had scarcely yielded to darkness, when the musician again entered the Hoogstraten mansion.  The little room was empty, but Belotti did not keep him waiting long.

The old man placed a dainty little waiter, bearing a jug of wine and a goblet, on the table beside the lamp and, after informing Wilhelm of the invalids’ condition, courteously offered him a chair.  When the musician asked him why he had not brought a cup for himself too, he replied: 

“I drink nothing but water, but allow me to take the liberty to sit down.  The servant who attends to the chambers has left the house, and I’ve done nothing but go up and down stairs all day.  It tries my old legs, and we can expect no quiet night.”