“Oh, then go to him, sir, for the young lady’s sake,” cried the old man earnestly. “It is in your power to save a human life, a beautiful young life.”
The steward’s eyes glittered with tears. As Wilhelm laid his hand on his arm, saying kindly: “I will try,” the fencing-master called: “Your council is lasting too long for me. I’ll come another time.”
“No, Meister, come up a minute, This gentleman is here on account of a poor sick girl. The poor, helpless creature is now lying without any care, for her aunt, old Fraulein Van Hoogstraten, has driven Doctor de Bont from her bed because he is a Calvinist.”
“From the sick girl’s bed?”
“It’s abominable enough, but the old lady is now ill herself.”
“Bravo, bravo!” cried the fencing-master, clapping his hands. “If the devil himself isn’t afraid of her and wants to fetch her, I’ll pay for his post-horses. But the girl, the sick girl?”
“Herr Belotti begs me to persuade de Bont to visit her again. Are you on friendly terms with the doctor?”
“I was, Wilhelm, I was; but—last Friday we had some sharp words about the new morions, and now the learned demi-god demands an apology from me, but to sound a retreat isn’t written here—”
“Oh, my dear sir,” cried Belotti, with touching earnestness. “The poor child is lying helpless in a raging fever. If Heaven has blessed you with children—”
“Be calm, old man, be calm,” replied the fencing master, stroking Belotti’s grey hair kindly. “My children are nothing to you, but we’ll do what we can for the young girl. Farewell till we meet again, gentlemen. Roland, my fore man, what shall we live to see! Hemp is still cheap in Holland, and yet such a monster has lived amongst us to be as old as a raven.”