The magistrate burst into a loud laugh. He was a tall, thin man, of a type to whom inaction is misery.
"I have not been away. Here"—he waved his hand with a wide motion over Blackheath—"here we lie, idle pensioners. Here we have been since May, ever encouraged, ever deluded. Here idleness and evil customs are corrupting our youth. Here we are dying."
Now the full meaning of the crowded Rhine and the warning of the Hollanders burst upon John Conrad. He looked at his children, at the young girls, at the little boys, and finally at plump, smiling John Frederick. He thrust his hand into his almost empty pocket, thinking of the long journey back to Gross Anspach for which he had no money. He thought of his high hopes of liberty and peace and independence. He covered his face with his hands so that his children might not see his tears.
"I am here, father!" cried Conrad. "I am strong! I can work!"
"They feed us," conceded the magistrate of Oberdorf. "And they have given us some clothing and these tents. But cold weather will come and we shall die."
"Cold weather! We should be in the new country by cold weather! You yourself wrote that you were about to sail, that you would sail on the next day. There!" John Conrad drew from his bosom the tattered letter. "I have stayed my soul upon it! I have set out on this journey upon faith in it!"
"I thought we should start. I was certain we should start. They say there are no ships. They have begun to send some of us to Ireland."
John Conrad shook his head.
"This whole land is sick. Across the ocean only there is peace."
"I can get a tent for you beside mine," offered Albrecht. "I have a little influence with those in authority."