Walter promised, and Femke ran to the house.
Then some boys came along throwing rocks. Walter, conscious of his responsibility, called to them to desist—or words to that effect. This only made them worse. They came closer, and, to worry Walter, began to walk over the linen. For him it was as if they were mistreating Femke, and he charged on the miscreants. But it was two against one, and a weaker one at that; so he would have soon been defeated if his lady had not returned quickly. She rescued him and drove off his assailants; and when she saw that his lip was bleeding she gave him a kiss. The boy’s heart trembled; all at once his soul was lifted to an unfamiliar level; and for the first time in weeks he felt again that princely nature that had given Leentje such a fright. His eyes shone, and the boy, who but a moment ago did not know how he was to write some rhymes, was filled with the feelings and emotions that make poets of men.
“O Fancy, Fancy, to die for thee—to die with such a kiss on the lips!”
It hurt him to think that the boys were gone. If there had been ten of them he would have had courage for the unequal fight.
And Femke, who had never heard of poetical overflows, understood him immediately, for she was a pure, innocent girl. She felt Walter’s chivalry, and knew that she was the lady to reward it.
“You are a dear sweet boy,” she said, taking his head between her hands and kissing him again, and again—as if she had done something of this kind before. But such was not the case.
“And now you must read the verses in the little book. Maybe it will help you to write for your aunt——”
“She isn’t my aunt,” Walter said, “but of course I will look through the book.”
He laid it on the railing of the bridge and began to read. Femke, who was taller than he, had put one arm around his neck, while with the other hand she was pointing out what he should read.
“Don’t you see?” she said, “the lines are the same length.”