“I should be glad to go to Italy once more with you,” replied Wilhelm.

“And I with you.”

“Let us first secure our liberty,” said the musician.  “When that is accomplished, each individual will belong to himself, and then:  why should I conceal it, nothing will keep me in Leyden.”

“And the organ?  Your father?” asked Aquanus.

“My brothers will remain here, snug in their own nest,” answered Wilhelm.  “But something urges, impels me—­”

“There are still waters and rivers on earth,” interrupted Georg, “and in the sky the fixed stars remain quiet and the planets cannot cease from wandering.  So among human beings, there are contented persons, who like their own places, and birds of passage like us.  To be sure, you needn’t go to Italy to hear fine singing.  I just heard a voice, a voice—­”

“Where?  You make me eager.”

“In the court-yard of Herr Van der Werff’s house.”

“That was his wife.”

“Oh, no!  Her voice sounds differently.”

During this conversation, Captain Van der Laen had risen and examined the landlord’s singular treasures.  He was now standing before a board, on which the head of an ox was sketched in charcoal, freely, boldly and with perfect fidelity to nature.

“What magnificent piece of beef is this?” he asked the landlord.

“No less a personage than Frank Floris sketched it,” replied Aquanus.  “He once came here from Brussels and called on Meister Artjen.  The old man had gone out, so Floris took a bit of charcoal and drew these lines with it.  When Artjen came home and found the ox’s head, he stood before it a long time and finally exclaimed:  ‘Frank Floris, or the devil!’ This story—­But there comes the burgomaster.  Welcome, Meister Peter.  A rare honor.”

All the guests rose and respectfully greated Van der Werff; Georg started up to offer him his chair.  Peter sat down for a short time and drank a glass of wine, but soon beckoned to the Junker and went out with him into the street.

There he briefly requested him to go to his house, for they had an important communication to make, and then went to Van Hout’s residence, which was close beside the inn.

Georg walked thoughtfully towards the burgomaster’s.

The “they” could scarcely have referred to any one except Maria.  What could she want of him at so late an hour?  Had his friend regretted having offered him lodgings in her own house?  He was to move into his new quarters early next morning; perhaps she wished to inform him of this change of mind, before it was too late.  Maria treated him differently from before, there was no doubt of that, but surely this was natural!  He had dreamed of a different, far different meeting!  He had come to Holland to support the good cause of Orange, yet he would certainly have turned his steed towards his beloved Italy, where a good sword was always in demand,