romise was given,
and the lady came forth from the gateway, bearing her husband upon
her shoulders. The burghers' pledge preserved him from the fury of the
troops but left them free to wreak their vengeance upon the castle.

"Do you BELIEVE that story, Captain Peter?" asked Carl in an incredulous
tone.

"Of course, I do. It is historical. Why should I doubt it?"

"Simply because no woman could do it--and if she could, she wouldn't.
That is my opinion."

"And I believe that there are many who WOULD. That is, to save those
they really cared for," said Ludwig.

Jacob, who in spite of his fat and sleepiness was of rather a
sentimental turn, had listened with deep interest.

"That is right, little fellow," he said, nodding his head approvingly.
"I believe every word of it. I shall never marry a woman who would not
be glad to do as much for ME."

"Heaven help her!" cried Carl, turning to gaze at the speaker. "Why,
Poot, three MEN couldn't do it!"

"Perhaps not," said Jacob quietly, feeling that he had asked rather too
much of the future Mrs. Poot. "But she must be WILLING, that is all."

"Aye," responded Peter's cheery voice, "willing heart makes nimble
foot--and who knows, but it may make strong arms also."

"Pete," asked Ludwig, changing the subject, "did you tell me last night
that the painter Wouwerman was born in Haarlem?"

"Yes, and Jacob Ruysdael and Berghem too. I like Berghem because he
was always good-natured. They say he always sang while he painted, and
though he died nearly two hundred years ago, there are traditions still
afloat concerning his pleasant laugh. He was a great painter, and he had
a wife as cross as Xantippe."

"They balanced each other finely," said Ludwig. "He was kind and she
was cross. But, Peter, before I forget it, wasn't that picture of Saint
Hubert and the horse painted by Wouwerman? You remember, Father showed
us an engraving from it last night."

"Yes, indeed. There is a story connected with that picture."

"Tell us!" cried two or three, drawing closer to Peter as they skated
on.

"Wouwerman," began the captain oratorically, "was born in 1620, just
four years before Berghem. He was a master of his art and especially
excelled in painting horses. Strange as it may seem, people were so long
finding out his merits that, even after he had arrived at the height
of his excellence, he was obliged to sell his pictures for very paltry
prices. The poor artist became completely disc