The landlord cast a timid, questioning glance at the nobleman, and as the latter shrugged his shoulders and said audibly: “There is probably room for more than two cloaks at the fire,” Quatgelat took the Leyden guests’ wraps from the bench and hung them on two chairs, which he pushed up to the mantel-piece.
While this was being done, the fencing-master slowly continued to count. By the time he reached twenty the landlord had finished his task, yet the irate captain still gave him no peace, but said:
“Now our reckoning, man. Wind and storm are far from pleasant, but I know even worse company. There’s room enough at the fire for four cloaks, and in Holland for all the animals in Noah’s ark, except Spaniards and the allies of Spain. Deuce take it, all the bile in my liver is stirred. Come to the horses with me, Herr Wilhelm, or there’ll be mischief.”
The fencing-master, while uttering the last words, stared angrily at the nobleman with his prominent eyes, which even under ordinary circumstances, always looked as keen as if they had something marvellous to examine.
Wibisma pretended not to hear the provoking words, and, as the fencing-master left the room, walked calmly, with head erect, towards the musician, bowed courteously, and thanked him for the kindness he had shown his son the day before.
“You are not in the least indebted to me,” replied Wilhelm Corneliussohn. “I helped the young nobleman, because it always has an ill look when numbers attack one.”
“Then allow me to praise this opinion,” replied the baron.
“Opinion,” repeated the musician with a subtle smile, drawing a few notes on the table.
The baron watched his fingers silently a short time, then advanced nearer the young man, asking:
“Must everything now relate to political dissensions?”