Such were the thoughts of Adrian’s secret heart, but as yet he had never acted on them, since, however much he might wish to do so, he had not found the courage to break away from the influence of his surroundings.  His surroundings—­ah! how he hated them!  How he hated them!  For very shame’s sake, indeed, he could not live in complete idleness among folk who were always busy, therefore he acted as accountant in his stepfather’s business, keeping the books of the foundry in a scanty and inefficient fashion, or writing letters to distant customers, for he was a skilled clerk, to order the raw materials necessary to the craft.  But of this occupation he was weary, for he had the true Spanish dislike and contempt of trade.  In his heart he held that war was the only occupation worthy of a man, successful war, of course, against foes worth plundering, such as Cortes and Pizarro had waged upon the poor Indians of New Spain.

Adrian had read a chronicle of the adventures of these heroes, and bitterly regretted that he had come into the world too late to share them.  The tale of heathen foemen slaughtered by thousands, and of the incalculable golden treasures divided among their conquerors, fired his imagination—­especially the treasures.  At times he would see them in his sleep, baskets full of gems, heaps of barbaric gold and guerdon of fair women slaves, all given by heaven to the true soldier whom it had charged with the sacred work of Christianising unbelievers by means of massacre and the rack.

Oh! how deeply did he desire such wealth and the power which it would bring with it; he who was dependent upon others that looked down upon him as a lazy dreamer, who had never a guilder to spare in his pouch, who had nothing indeed but more debts than he cared to remember.  But it never occurred to him to set to work and grow rich like his neighbours by honest toil and commerce.  No, that was the task of slaves, like these low Hollander fellows among whom his lot was cast.

Such were the main characteristics of Adrian, surnamed van Goorl; Adrian the superstitious but unspiritual dreamer, the vain Sybarite, the dull poet, the chopper of false logic, the weak and passionate self-seeker, whose best and deepest cravings, such as his love for his mother and another love that shall be told of, were really little more than a reflection of his own pride and lusts, or at least could be subordinated to their fulfilment.  Not that he was altogether bad; somewhere in him there was a better part.  Thus:  he was capable of good purposes and of bitter remorse; under certain circumstances even he might become capable also of a certain spurious spiritual exaltation.  But if this was to bloom in his heart, it must be in a prison strong enough to protect from the blows of temptation.  Adrian tempted would always be Adrian overcome.  He was fashioned by nature to be the tool of others or of his own desires.