Like his son, Adrian, Ramiro was superstitious; more, his intellect, hisreading, which in youth had been considerable, his observation of menand women, all led him to the conclusion that death is a wall with manydoors in it; that on this side of the wall we may not linger or sleep,but must pass each of us through his appointed portal straight to thedomain prepared for us. If so, what would be his lot, and who would bewaiting to greet him yonder? Oh! terrors may attend the wicked afterdeath, but in the case of some they do not tarry until death; they leapforward to him whom it is decreed must die, forcing attention with theireager, craving hands, with their obscure and ominous voices. . . . Abouthim the sweet breath of the summer afternoon, the skimming swallows,the meadows starred with flowers; within him every hell at which theimagination can so much as hint.
Before he passed the gates of Leyden, in those few short hours, Ramiro,to Elsa's eyes, had aged by twenty years.
Their little boat was heavy laden, the wind was against them, and theyhad a dying man and a prisoner aboard. So it came about that the day wasclosing before the soldiers challenged them from the watergate, askingwho they were and whither they went. Foy stood up and said:
"We are Foy van Goorl, Red Martin, Elsa Brant, a wounded man and aprisoner, escaped from Haarlem, and we go to the house of Lysbeth vanGoorl in the Bree Straat."
Then they let them through the watergate, and there, on the furtherside, were many gathered who thanked God for their deliverance, andbegged tidings of them.
"Come to the house in the Bree Straat and we will tell you from thebalcony," answered Foy.
So they rowed from one cut and canal to another till at last they cameto the private boat-house of the van Goorls, and entered it, and thus bythe small door into the house.