“Very well, his reward will make you forget your back pay,” remarks Guy, as Oliver returns from the inner office, where he has been closeted with the captain of the guard, and says the necessary orders have been given for the arrest of De Guerra. “I don’t think,” laughs Chester, as he and Oliver walk along the street together (for they have left the ensign at the provost marshal’s) “that that gentleman from South Zeeland will be anxious to report himself at any of the guard-houses of this town to give information about me. And now, after danger—” the look on his face tells his meaning to the little painter, who murmurs: “Love!” So the two stride up Kammer street again, and along the Shoemarket to the Place de Meir, where the great house of Bodé Volcker is situated, and going in, find themselves very shortly en rapport with the family of a merchant of that day. As they reach the arched passageway leading to the courtyard, seeing no signs of equipage, the corner of Guy’s mouth droops. “Don’t be impatient; it is better to be first, then I can arrange our little scheme of bargains before the arrival of the duenna Countess and her charge,” says the artist. Leading the way with the familiarity that denotes a friend of the house, Oliver raps upon a side door situated at the further end of the courtyard, and almost immediately is admitted by the servant girl of the evening before; the lady’s maid, Wiarda, she of the haughty nose, apparently being engaged elsewhere. They enter directly into what is the living room of the house. Here the family of Bodé Volcker, consisting of himself, Jakob, a boy of sixteen, who has just left school for the counting room, and the daughter, Wilhelmina, whose soft blonde curls and merry blue eyes have induced Oliver not only to put her upon his canvas but in his heart, are apparently engaged in a family discussion that is becoming highly flavored. The old gentleman, an energetic but fat Fleming, with commercial expression and commercial eyes, is evidently excited. His cheeks are red and angry. The young lady’s blue eyes are equally angry, though they are slightly dimmed by latent tears, and one of the corners of her dear little mouth is twitching nervously. The boy, like most cubs of his age, is seemingly enjoying some dispute between papa and sister, for his blonde German face has a suppressed snicker in it. If he dared he would laugh. “Ah, Oliver,” cries the merchant, rising with outstretched hands, “back from Brussels! A short trip,” and welcomes the painter with the easy familiarity of a friend of his house. Miss Wilhelmina, on the contrary, greets Antony in haughty Spanish style, extending white fingers for her sweetheart to kiss. The cub merely snickers; “Hoe maakt je ’t?” “I’ve taken the liberty of bringing a friend, Captain Guido Amati, of the Middelburg garrison,” remarks the painter.