impetuously below was probably kind "Babetta."

Anxiety drove her from her bed. On the little table beside it, amid
several bottles and glasses, the lamp and the box of matches, stood the
tiny bell, at whose faint sound one of her nurses invariably hastened in.
Henrica rang it three times, then again and again, but nobody appeared.
Then her hot blood boiled, and half from impatience and vexation, half
from curiosity and sympathy, she slipped into her shoes, threw on a
morning dress, went to the chair which stood on the platform in the
niche, opened the window, and looked down at the groups gathered below.

No one noticed her, for the men who stood there sorrowing, and the
weeping women, among whom were Maria and Barbara, were listening with
many tokens of sympathy to the eager words of a young man, and had eyes
and ears for him alone. Henrica recognized in the speaker the musician
Wilhelm, but only by his voice, for the morion on his curls and the
blood-stained coat of mail gave the unassuming artist a martial, nay
heroic air.

He had advanced a long way in his story, when Henrica unseen became a
listener.

"Yes, sir," he replied, in answer to a question from the burgomaster,
"we followed them, but they disappeared in the village and all remained
still. To risk storming the houses, would have been madness. So we kept
quiet, but towards two o'clock heard firing in the neighborhood of
Leyderdorp. 'Junker von Warmond has made a sally,' said the captain,
leading us in the direction of the firing. This was what the Spaniards
had wanted, for long before we reached the goal, a company of Castilians,
with white sheets over their armor, climbed out of a ditch in the dim