ough, and of chief men in the country too, who well know the motives
of my journey. But whatever comes of it, so soon as the crowd make the
least noise at your door, I will go out and make straight for them,
though they should serve me as they have done the unhappy De Witts."

Van der Spijck threw open the door. "Thy word is an oath!"

On the stairs shone the speckless landlady, a cheerful creature in
black cap and white apron, her bodice laced with ornamental green and
red ribbons. She gave a cry of joy, and flew to meet him, broom in
hand. "Welcome home, Heer Spinoza! How glad the little ones will be
when they get back from school! There's a pack of knaves been
slandering thee right and left; some of them tried to pump Henri, but
we sent them away with fleas in their ears--eh, Henri?"

Henri smiled sheepishly.

"Most pertinacious of all was a party of three--an old man and his
daughter and a young man. They came twice, very vexed to find thee
away, and feigning to be old friends of thine from Amsterdam; at least
not the young man--his lament was to miss the celebrated scholar he
had been taken to see. A bushel of questions they asked, but not many
pecks did they get out of _me_."

A flush had mantled upon Spinoza's olive cheek. "Did they give any
name?" he asked with unusual eagerness.

"It ends in Ende--that stuck in my memory."

"Van den Ende?"

"Or suchlike."

"The daughter was--beautiful?"

"A goddess!" put in the painter.

"Humph!" said the vrouw. "Give _me_ the young man. A cold marble
creature is not my idea of a goddess."

"'Tis a Greek goddess," said Spinoza with labored lightness. "They are
indeed old friends of mine--saving the young man, who is doubtless a
pupil of the old. He is a very learned philologist, this Dr. van den
Ende: he taught me Latin--"

"And Greek goddesses," flashed the vrouw affectionately.

Spinoza tried to say something, but fell a-coughing instead, and began
to ascend to his room. He was agitated: and it was his principle to
quit society whenever his emotions threatened to exceed philosophical
moderation.

"Wait! I have thy key," cried the goodwife, pursuing him. "And oh!
what dust in thy room! No wonder thou art troubled with a phthisis!"

"Thou didst not arrange anything?" he cried in alarm.

"A flick with a feather-brush, as I took in thy letters--no more; my
hand itched to be at thy papers, but see! not one is in order!"

She unlocked his door, revealing a li