Both were exchanging affectionate farewells with a young girl, whose voice sounded deeper than the halfgrown boy’s.
As the older gentleman thrust his hand through the roan’s mane and was already lifting his foot to put it in the stirrup, the young girl, who had remained in the entry, came out into the street, laid her hand on Wibisma’s arm, and said:
“One word more, uncle, but to you alone.”
The baron still held his horse’s mane in his hand, exclaiming with a cordial smile:
“If only it isn’t too heavy for the roan. A secret from beautiful lips has its weight.”
While speaking, he bent his ear towards his niece, but she did not seem to have intended to whisper, for she approached no nearer and merely lowered her tone, saying in the Italian language:
“Please tell my father, that I won’t stay here.”
“Why, Henrica!”
“Tell him I won’t do so under any circumstances.”
“Your aunt won’t let you go.”