so wills it, a successful end."

"Amen," cried Peter, pressed the commissioner's hand and pursued his way
home.

Barbara met him on the steps and wanted to call Maria, who was with
Henrica; but he forbade it and paced thoughtfully to and fro, his lips
often quivering as if he were suffering great pain. When, after some
time, he heard his wife's voice in the dining-room, he controlled
himself by a violent effort, went to the door, and slowly opened it.

"You are at home already, and I sitting quietly here spinning!" she
exclaimed in surprise.

"Yes, child. Please come in here, I have something to say to you."

"For Heaven's sake! Peter, tell me what has happened. How your voice
sounds, and how pale you look!"

"I'm not ill, but matters are serious, terribly serious, Maria."

"Then it is true that the enemy--"

"They gained great advantage to-day and yesterday, but I beg you, if you
love me, don't interrupt me now; what I have to say is no easy thing, it
is hard to force the lips to utter it. Where shall I begin? How shall
I speak, that you may not misunderstand me? You know, child, I took you
into my house from a warm nest. What we could offer was very little,
and you had doubtless expected to find more. I know you have not been
happy."

"But it would be so easy for you to make me so."

"You are mistaken, Maria. In these troublous times but one thing claims
my thoughts, and whatever diverts them from it is evil. But just now
one thing paralyzes my courage and will-anxiety about your fate; for who
knows what is impending over us, and therefore it must be said, I must
take my heart to the shambles and express a wish.--A wish? Oh, merciful
Heaven, is there no other word for what I mean!"

"Speak, Peter, speak, and do not torture me!" cried Maria, gazing
anxiously into her husband's face. It could be no small matter, that
induced the clear-headed, resolute man to utter such confused language.

The burgomaster summoned up his courage and began again:

"You are right, it is useless to keep back what must be said. We have
determined at the town-hall to-day, to request the women and girls to
leave the city. The road to Delft is still open; day after to-morrow
it may no longer be so, afterwards--who can predict what will happen
afterwards? If no relief comes and the provisions are consumed, we shall
be forced to open the gates to the enemy, and then, Maria, imagine what
will happen! The Rhine and the canals will g