Peter Van der Werff, without any form of salutation, turned his back on
his family, opened the door leading into his study, and after crossing
the threshold, closed it with a bang, approached the big oak writing-
desk, on which papers and letters lay piled in heaps, secured by rough
leaden weights, and began to rummage among the newly-arrived documents.
For fifteen minutes he vainly strove to fix the necessary attention upon
his task, then grasped his study-chair to rest his folded arms on the
high, perforated back, adorned with simple carving, and gazed
thoughtfully at the wooden wainscoting of the ceiling. After a few
minutes he pushed the chair aside with his foot, raised his hand to his
mouth, separated his moustache from his thick brown beard, and went to
the window. The small, round, leaden-cased panes, however brightly they
might be polished, permitted only a narrow portion of the street to be
seen, but the burgomaster seemed to have found the object for which he
had been looking. Hastily opening the window, he called to his servant,
who was hurriedly approaching the house:

"Is he in, Janche?"

The Frieselander shook his head, the window again closed, and a few
minutes after the burgomaster seized his hat, which hung, between some
cavalry pistols and a plain, substantial sword, on the only wall of his
room not perfectly bare.

The torturing anxiety that filled his mind, would no longer allow him to
remain in the house.

He would have his horse saddled, and ride to meet the expected messenger.

Ere leaving the room, he paused a moment lost in thought, then approached