“Herr Van Aken gives me what he can, in addition to my ration. I shall get through; but I witnessed a terrible sight to-day at the tailor’s, who mends my clothes.”
“Well?”
“Two of his children have starved to death.”
“And the weaver’s family opposite,” added Barbara, weeping. “Such nice people! The young wife was confined four days ago, and this morning mother and child expired of weakness, expired, I tell you, like a lamp that has consumed its oil and must go out. At the cloth-maker Peterssohn’s, the father and all five children have died of the plague. If that isn’t pitiful!”
“Stop, stop!” said Georg, shuddering. “I must go to the court-yard to drill.”
“What’s the use of that! The Spaniards don’t attack; they leave the work to the skeleton death. Your fencing gives an appetite, and the poor hollow herrings can scarcely stir their own limbs.”
“Wrong, Frau Barbara, wrong,” replied the young man. “The exercise and motion sustains them. Herr von Nordwyk knew what he was doing, when he asked me to drill them in the dead fencing-master’s place.”
“You’re thinking of the ploughshare that doesn’t rust. Perhaps you are right; but before you go to work, take a sip of this. Our wine is still the best. When people have something to do, at least they don’t mutiny, like those poor fellows among the volunteers day before yesterday. Thank God, they are gone!”
While the widow was filling a glass, Wilhelm’s mother came into the kitchen and greeted Barbara and the young nobleman. She carried under her shawl a small package clasped tightly to her bosom. Her breadth was still considerable, but the flesh, with which she had moved about so briskly a few months ago, now seemed to have become an oppressive burden.
She took the little bundle in her right hand, saying “I have something for your Bessie. My Wilhelm, good fellow—”