But Mrs. Claus herself? Perhaps she, too, had gone away. This was the case; however, she had not gone out without leaving behind her a peculiar sign of her uncouth character and lack of refinement. On a small table, before which stood an inviting chair, lay two pieces of bread and butter of her standard make. Beside them was a pot of coffee. To be sure, it was cold now; but—well, Walter acted quickly “according to his convictions.”
Other thoughts now forced themselves on his mind. The “House of Pieterse” appeared to his mind’s eye as a menacing waterspout. In the face of this danger difficult questions that had been clamoring for answer had to be forgotten.
To go home? For heaven’s sake, no!
His mother, Stoffel, his sisters—all had turned into Macbethan witches. In his imagination, even Leentje had deserted him and was asking him to beg forgiveness for his shameful behavior. He thought of the prodigal son; though he knew that no calf, fat or otherwise, would be slaughtered on his return.
Sakkerloot! I haven’t done anything wrong; I haven’t squandered anything—not a doit of my inheritance! Have I allowed the wine to run out? Not a drop!
But something must have been the matter; for—he did not dare to go home.
Have I had any pleasure? Have I enjoyed any feast with four young ladies? No! Have I allowed hounds to run around loose in the banquet-hall? Have I had any negro servant to hold my horse?
There he took his stand. And he stayed there. Of camels and girls and wine he felt that he was innocent; but himself, and his adventures of the night, he was unable further to explain.
“I wish I were a crumb of bread,” he sighed, as he stuck one into his mouth, “then I would know where I belong.”
Doubtless the first crumb of bread that was ever envied by a ruler.