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Updated: May 1, 2025
The moon was bright, but they were in the shadow of some trees, and their son did not see them. He came singing in the moonlight, and his face shining. While the burgomaster was exposing Gerard at Tergou, Margaret had a trouble of her own at Sevenbergen. It was a housewife's distress, but deeper than we can well conceive. She came to Martin Wittenhaagen, the old soldier, with tears in her eyes.
On this last score her conscience pricked her sore, and after each day's comedy, she knelt down and prayed God to forgive her "for the sake of her child." But lo and behold, cure and cure was reported to her; so then her conscience began to harden. Martin Wittenhaagen had of late been a dead weight on her hands. Like most men who had endured great hardships, he had stiffened rather suddenly.
It was therefore a strange thing in this house, the faltering, irresolute way in which its young but despotic mistress addressed that person, who in a domestic sense was less important than Martin Wittenhaagen, or even than the little girl who came in the morning and for a pittance washed the vessels, etc., and went home at night. "Father, I would speak to thee." "Speak on, girl."
Reicht attributed this principally to certain nourishing dishes she prepared in Peter's kitchen; but Margaret herself thought more of the kind words and eyes that kept telling her she had friends to live for. Martin Wittenhaagen went straight to Rotterdam, to take the bull by the horns. The bull was a biped, with a crown for horns.
And with this she seized Gerard and almost dragged him up the rude steps that led to her father's sleeping-room. Her own lay next beyond it. The blows on the door were repeated. "Who knocks at this hour?" "Open, and you will see!" "I open not to thieves honest men are all abed now." "Open to the law, Martin Wittenhaagen, or you shall rue it." "Why, that is Dirk Brower's voice, I trow.
It purported to be a stipend and a licence given by Philip, Duke of Burgundy, to Martin Wittenhaagen, one of his archers, in return for services in the wars, and for a wound received at the Dukes side.
"There," said he, "this is but a furlong broad, but it will serve our turn." "What are we to do?" "Get through this, and wait on the other side; then as they come straggling through, shoot three, knock two on the head, and the rest will kill us." "Is that all you can think of?" said Gerard. "That is all." "Then, Martin Wittenhaagen, I take the lead, for you have lost your head.
And Martin Wittenhaagen came in, and she could not lift her head, but sighed out to him what had befallen her, ending, "My love his box is broken, and so mine heart is broken." And Martin was not so sad as wroth. Some traitor had betrayed him. What stony heart had told and brought her to this pass? Whoever it was should feel his arrow's point.
Yet the deer that sees it loses all power of motion, and trembles, and awaits his death and even so, to compare hearing with sight, this sweet and mellow sound seemed to fascinate Martin Wittenhaagen. He stood uncertain, bewildered, and unnerved. Gerard was little better now.
"They have lost her, and laid muzzled bloodhounds on her scent; they will find her here, and the venison. Good-bye, friends, Martin Wittenhaagen ends here." Gerard seized his bow, and put it into the soldier's hands. "Be a man," he cried; "shoot her, and fling her into the wood ere they come up. Who will know?" More voices of hounds broke out, and nearer.
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