By now it was time to eat; indeed, there are few things that make a man hungrier than long-continued poetical exercise, so Adrian ate.  In the midst of the meal his mother returned, pale and anxious-faced, for the poor woman had been engaged in making arrangements for the safety of the beggared widow of the martyred Jansen, a pathetic and even a dangerous task.  In his own way Adrian was fond of his mother, but being a selfish puppy he took but little note of her cares or moods.  Therefore, seizing the opportunity of an audience he insisted upon reading to her his sonnet, not once but several times.

“Very pretty, my son, very pretty,” murmured Lysbeth, through whose bewildered brain the stilted and meaningless words buzzed like bees in an empty hive, “though I am sure I cannot guess how you find the heart in such times as these to write poetry to fine ladies whom you do not know.”

“Poetry, mother,” said Adrian sententiously, “is a great consoler; it lifts the mind from the contemplation of petty and sordid cares.”

“Petty and sordid cares!” repeated Lysbeth wonderingly, then she added with a kind of cry:  “Oh!  Adrian, have you no heart that you can watch a saint burn and come home to philosophise about his agonies?  Will you never understand?  If you could have seen that poor woman this morning who only three months ago was a happy bride.”  Then bursting into tears Lysbeth turned and fled from the room, for she remembered that what was the fate of the Vrouw Jansen to-day to-morrow might be her own.

This show of emotion quite upset Adrian whose nerves were delicate, and who being honestly attached to his mother did not like to see her weeping.

“Pest on the whole thing,” he thought to himself, “why can’t we go away and live in some pleasant place where they haven’t got any religion, unless it is the worship of Venus?  Yes, a place of orange groves, and running streams, and pretty women with guitars, who like having sonnets read to them, and——­”

At this moment the door opened and Martin’s huge and flaming poll appeared.

“The master wants to know if you are coming to the works, Heer Adrian, and if not will you be so good as to give me the key of the strong-box as he needs the cash book.”

With a groan Adrian rose to go, then changed his mind.  No, after that perfumed vision of green groves and lovely ladies it was impossible for him to face the malodorous and prosaic foundry.

“Tell them I can’t come,” he said, drawing the key from his pocket.

“Very good, Heer Adrian, why not?”

“Because I am writing.”

“Writing what?” queried Martin.

“A sonnet.”

“What’s a sonnet?” asked Martin blankly.

“Ill-educated clown,” murmured Adrian, then—­with a sudden inspiration, “I’ll show you what a sonnet is; I will read it to you.  Come in and shut the door.”  Martin obeyed, and was duly rewarded with the sonnet, of which he understood nothing at all except the name of the lady, Isabella d’Ovanda.  But Martin was not without the guile of the serpent.