Anna’s pride:  she wrote to her father as a repentant daughter, bowed down by misfortune, but received no reply.  At last, reduced to starvation with her child, she undertook the hardest possible task, and besought the man, of whom she could only think with contempt and loathing, not to let his son grow up like a beggar’s child.  The letter, which contained this cry of distress, had reached Don Luis just before his death.  No help was to come to her from him.  But Belotti appeared, and now she was once more at home, her friend and sister were standing beside her bed, and Henrica encouraged her to hope for her father’s forgiveness.

It was past midnight, yet Georg still awaited his friend’s return.  The noise and bustle of the camp began to die away and the lantern, which at first had but feebly lighted the spacious lower-room of the farmhouse, burned still more dimly.  The German shared this apartment with agricultural implements, harnesses, and many kinds of grain and vegetables heaped in piles against the walls, but he lacked inclination to cast even a glance at his motley surroundings.  There was nothing pleasant to him in the present or future.  He felt humiliated, guilty, weary of life.  His self-respect was trampled under foot, love and happiness were forfeited, there was naught before him save a colorless, charmless future, full of bitterness and mental anguish.  Nothing seemed desirable save a speedy death.  At times the fair image of his home rose before his memory—­but it vanished as soon as he recalled the burgomaster’s dignified figure, his own miserable weakness and the repulse he had experienced.  He was full of fierce indignation against himself, and longed with passionate impatience for the clash of swords and roar of cannon, the savage struggle man to man.

Time passed without his perceiving it, but a torturing desire for food began to torment the starving man.  There were plenty of turnips piled against the wall, and he eat one after another, until he experienced the feeling of satiety he had so long lacked.  Then he sat down on a kneading-trough and considered how he could best get to the Beggars.  He did not know his way, but woe betide those who ventured to oppose him.  His arm and sword were good, and there were Spaniards enough at hand whom he could make feel the weight of both.  His impatience began to rise, and it seemed like a welcome diversion, when he heard steps approaching and a man’s figure entered the house.  He had stationed himself by the wall with his sword between his folded arms, and now shouted a loud “halt” to the new-comer.

The latter instantly drew his sword, and when Georg imperiously demanded what he wanted, replied in a boyish voice, but a proud, resolute tone: 

“I ask you that question!  I am in my father’s house.”

“Indeed!” replied the German smiling, for he had now recognized the speaker’s figure by the dim light.  I Put up your sword.  If you are young Matanesse Van Wibisma, you have nothing to fear from me.”