“But the young lady—­”

“It will be time enough, if she learns at the gate who is to accompany her.”

When Georg came to the tavern at the appointed hour, he learned that Henrica had received another letter from Nicolas.  It had been given to the outposts by the Junker himself, and contained only the words “Until midnight, the Spanish watch-word is ‘Lepanto.’  Your father shall know to-day, that Anna is here.”

After the departure from the Hohenort Gate had been fixed for nine o’clock in the evening, Georg went to Captain Van der Laen and the commandant Van der Does, received from the former the discharge he requested, and from Janus a letter to his friend, Admiral Boisot.  When he informed his men, that he intended to leave the city and make his way to the Beggars, they declared they would follow, and live or die with him.  It was with difficulty that he succeeded in restraining them.  Before the town-hall he slackened his pace.  The burgomaster was always to be found there at this hour.  Should he quit the city without taking leave of him?  No, no!  And yet—­since yesterday he had forfeited the right to look frankly into his eyes.  He was afraid to meet him, it seemed as if he were completely estranged from him.  So Georg rushed past the town-hall, and said defiantly:  “Even if I leave him without a farewell, I owe him nothing; for I must pay for his kindness with cruel suffering, perhaps death.  Maria loved me first, and what she is, and was, and ever will be to me, she shall know before I go.”

He returned to his room at twilight, asked the manservant to carry his knapsack to Captain Van Duivenvoorde at the Hohenort Gate, and then went, with his little book in his doublet, to the main building to take leave of Maria.  He ascended the staircase slowly and paused in the upper entry.

The beating of his heart almost stopped his breath.  He did not know at which door to knock, and a torturing dread overpowered him, so that he stood for several minutes as if paralyzed.  Then he summoned up his courage, shook himself, and muttered:  “Have I become a coward!” With these words he opened the door leading into the dining-room and entered.  Adrian was sitting at the empty table, beside a burning torch, with some books.  Georg asked for his mother.

“She is probably spinning in her room,” replied the boy.

“Call her, I have something important to tell her.”  Adrian went away, returning with the answer that the Junker might wait in his father’s study.

“Where is Barbara?” asked Georg.

“With Bessie.”

The German nodded, and while pacing up and down beside the dining-room, thought, “I can’t go so.  It must come from the heart; once, once more I will hear her say, that she loves me, I will—­I will—­Let it be dishonorable, let it be worthy of execration, I will atone for it; I will atone for it with my life!”

While Georg was pacing up and down the room, Adrian gathered his books together, saying:  “B-r-r-r, Junker, how you look to-day!  One might be afraid of you.  Mother is in there already.  The tinder-box is rattling; she is probably lighting the lamp.”