“Don’t call her that!” exclaimed the widow.  “Give her her Christian name.  She looks like this cloth, and since yesterday has refused to take the milk we daily procure for her at a heavy cost.  Heaven knows what the end will be.  Look at that cabbage-stalk.  Half a stiver! and that miserable piece of bone!  Once I should have thought it too poor for the dogs—­and now!  The whole household must be satisfied with it.  For supper I shall boil ham-rind with wine and add a little porridge to it.  And this for a giant like Peter!  God only knows where he gets his strength; but he looks like his own shadow.  Maria doesn’t need anything more than a bird, but Adrian, poor fellow, often leaves the table with tears in his eyes, yet I know he has broken many a bit of bread from his thin slice for Bessie.  It is pitiable.  Yet the proverb says:  ’Stretch yourself towards the ceiling, or your feet will freeze—­’Necessity knows no law,’ and ‘Reserve to preserve.’  Day before yesterday, like the rest, we again gave of the little we still possessed.  To-morrow, everything beyond what is needed for the next fortnight, must be delivered up, and Peter won’t allow us to keep even a bag of flour, but what will come then—­merciful Heaven!—­”

The widow sobbed aloud as she uttered the last words and continued, weeping:  “Where do you get your strength?  At your age this miserable scrap of meat is a mere drop of water on a red-hot stone.”

“Herr Van Aken gives me what he can, in addition to my ration.  I shall get through; but I witnessed a terrible sight to-day at the tailor’s, who mends my clothes.”

“Well?”

“Two of his children have starved to death.”

“And the weaver’s family opposite,” added Barbara, weeping.  “Such nice people!  The young wife was confined four days ago, and this morning mother and child expired of weakness, expired, I tell you, like a lamp that has consumed its oil and must go out.  At the cloth-maker Peterssohn’s, the father and all five children have died of the plague.  If that isn’t pitiful!”

“Stop, stop!” said Georg, shuddering.  “I must go to the court-yard to drill.”

“What’s the use of that!  The Spaniards don’t attack; they leave the work to the skeleton death.  Your fencing gives an appetite, and the poor hollow herrings can scarcely stir their own limbs.”

“Wrong, Frau Barbara, wrong,” replied the young man.  “The exercise and motion sustains them.  Herr von Nordwyk knew what he was doing, when he asked me to drill them in the dead fencing-master’s place.”

“You’re thinking of the ploughshare that doesn’t rust.  Perhaps you are right; but before you go to work, take a sip of this.  Our wine is still the best.  When people have something to do, at least they don’t mutiny, like those poor fellows among the volunteers day before yesterday.  Thank God, they are gone!”

While the widow was filling a glass, Wilhelm’s mother came into the kitchen and greeted Barbara and the young nobleman.  She carried under her shawl a small package clasped tightly to her bosom.  Her breadth was still considerable, but the flesh, with which she had moved about so briskly a few months ago, now seemed to have become an oppressive burden.