CHAPTER II.

Young Adrian hurried down the Werffsteg, which had given his family its
name. He heeded neither the lindens on both sides, amid whose tops the
first tiny green leaves were forcing their way out of the pointed buds,
nor the birds that flew hither and thither among the hospitable boughs of
the stately trees, building their nests and twittering to each other, for
he had no thought in his mind except to reach home as quickly as
possible.

Beyond the bridge spanning the Achtergracht, he paused irresolutely
before a large building.

The knocker hung on the central door, but he did not venture to lift it
and let it fall on the shining plate beneath, for he could expect no
pleasant reception from his family.

His doublet had fared ill during his struggle with his stronger enemy.
The torn neck-ruffles had been removed from their proper place and thrust
into his pocket, and the new violet stocking on his right leg, luckless
thing, had been so frayed by rubbing on the pavement, that a large
yawning rent showed far more of Adrian's white knee than was agreeable to
him.

The peacock feather in his little velvet cap could easily be replaced,
but the doublet was torn, not ripped, and the stocking scarcely capable