wn street door, under the trees lining the canal-bank, his
landlord, Van der Spijck, the painter--usually a phlegmatic figure
haloed in pipe-clouds--congratulated him excitedly on his safe return,
but refused him entry to the house. "Here thou canst lodge no more."

"Here I lodge to-night," said Spinoza quietly, "if there be any law in
Holland."

"Law! The folk will take the law into their own hands. My windows will
be broken, my doors battered in. And thou wilt be murdered and thrown
into the canal."

His lodger laughed. "And wherefore? An honest optician murdered! Go
to, good friend!"

"If thou hadst but sat at home, polishing thy spy-glasses instead of
faring to Utrecht! Customarily thou art so cloistered in that the
goodwife declares thou forgettest to eat for three days together--and
certes there is little thou canst eat when thou goest not abroad to
buy provision! What devil must drive thee on a long journey in this
hour of heat and ferment? Not that I believe a word of thy turning
traitor--I'd sooner believe my mahl-stick could turn serpent like
Aaron's rod--but in my house thou shalt not be murdered."

"Reassure thyself. The whole town knows my business with Stoupe; at
least I told my bookseller, and 'tis only a matter of hours."

"Truly he is a lively gossip."

"Ay," said Spinoza drily. "He was even aware that a letter from the
Royal Society of England awaits me."

Van der Spijck reddened. "I have not opened it," he cried hastily.

"Naturally. But the door thou mayst open."

The painter hesitated. "They will drag thee forth, as they dragged the
De Witts from the prison."

Spinoza smiled sadly. "And on that occasion thou wouldst not let me
out; now thou wilt not let me in."

"Both proofs that I have more regard for thee than thou for thyself.
If I had let thee dash out to fix up on the public wall that
denunciation thou hadst written of the barbarian mob, there had been
no life of thine to risk to-day. Fly the town, I beseech thee, or find
thicker walls than mine. Thou knowest I would shelter thee had I the
power; do not our other lodgers turn to thee in sickness and sorrow to
be soothed by thy talk? Do not our own little ones love and obey thee
more than their mother and me? But if thou wert murdered in our house,
how dreadful a shock and a memory to us all!"

"I know well your love for me," said Spinoza, touched. "But fear
nothing on my account: I can easily justify myself. There are people
en