the wide hall and up the stairs, than she had spoken, and again he was
vividly reminded of his friend in Rome.

The old Italian had also followed Henrica with his eyes. As she vanished
at the last bend of the broad steps, he shrugged his shoulders, turned to
the musician and said, with an expression of honest sympathy:

"The young lady isn't well. Always in a tumult; always like a loaded
pistol, and these terrible headaches too! She was different when she
came here."

"Is she ill?"

"My mistress won't see it," replied the servant. "But what the cameriera
and I see, we see. Now red--now pale, no rest at night, at table she
scarcely eats a chicken-wing and a leaf of salad."

"Does the doctor share your anxiety?"

"The doctor? Doctor Fleuriel isn't here. He moved to Ghent when the
Spaniards came, and since then my mistress will have nobody but the
barber who bleeds her. The doctors here are devoted to the Prince of
Orange and are all heretics. There, she is calling again. I'll send the
cloak to your house, and if you ever feel inclined to speak my language,
just knock here. That calling--that everlasting calling! The young lady
suffers from it too."

When Wilhelm entered the street, it was only raining very slightly. The
clouds were beginning to scatter, and from a patch of blue sky the sun
was shining brightly down on Nobelstrasse. A rainbow shimmered in