"Come, thou grizzled old bunch of keys," cried one of them, in a voice that tinkled like a bell, "learn to be young again for an hour. So shalt thou cheat both Father Time, and eke Jack Ketch, thy near kinsman." "I am waxing old, indeed, when Bonnibel taunts me unscathed," muttered Peter Hals, grimly, to himself, as he watched them out of sight; "it is true there are gray hairs in my poll. But, Lord knows, I have yet in me the fire of youth. My natural strength is noneways abated. I can stand on my feet and swig down the sturdy Hollands with any man--aye, even with a city councillor at a feast of the corporation. But I rust here and mildew in this God-forsaken prison. 'Tis six o'clock of a morning, open the doors! Seven o'clock, take about the breakfast! Ten o'clock, comes a jackanapes spick-and-span officer for inspection! Two o'clock, a dozen new prisoners, and no cells to put them in! Six o'clock, supper and complaints! Then click the bolts and rattle the keys--to bed, sleep, and begin all the pother over again on the morrow! Pshaw!--a dog's life were livelier, a-scratching for fleas. They at least bite not twice on the same spot." Thus Black Peter Hals, discontentedly ruffling his gray badger's cockscomb on the steps of the prison of Amersfort. As he watched, a dainty slip of a maid came up the street with a pitcher of coarse blue delft on her shoulder. In the by-going she raised her eyes to those of Peter Hals. It was but a single long glance, yet it sent his ideas every way in a fine scatter, and eke Peter's hand to his mustache that he might feel whether it were in order. At this moment a dog ran against the girl, and the pitcher clattered to the ground, where it broke into a thousand pieces. The maid stopped, clasped her hands pitifully, and burst into tears. "It is all your fault," she cried, looking up at the keeper of the prison. Peter ran down the steps and took her by the hand. "Do not weep, sweet maid," he said, "I will buy thee a pitcher ten times better, and fill it with the best of white wine or the choicest oil, only do not cry your pretty eyes all red." The girl stole a shy glance at Black Peter. "Are you of the servants of the prince?" said she, bashfully looking at the orange facing of his tunic. Black Peter erected himself a little and squared out his chest. It was the first time that his grim prison uniform had been so distinguished. "I am indeed the keeper of this castle of the prince," he said, with dignity. "It is a fine castle, in truth," said the maid, looking at it up and down and crossways, with blue, wide-open, most ingenuous eyes. "You come from the country, perhaps?" asked Peter. For such innocence was wellnigh impossible to any maid of the city.