Chapter 2

"His words are bonds, his oaths are oracles;
His love sincere, his thoughts immaculate;--"

Two Gentlemen of Verona.

The philosophy of Alderman Van Beverout was not easily disturbed. Still
there was a play of the nether muscles of the face, which might be
construed into self-complacency at his victory, while a certain
contraction of those which controlled the expression of the forehead
seemed to betray a full consciousness of the imminent risk he had run. The
left hand was thrust into a pocket, where it diligently fingered the
provision of Spanish coin without which the merchant never left his abode;
while the other struck the cane it held on the pavement, with the force of
a resolute and decided man. In this manner he proceeded in his walk, for
several minutes longer, shortly quitting the lower streets, to enter one
that ran along the ridge, which crowned the land, in that quarter of the
island. Here he soon stopped before the door of a house which, in that
provincial town, had altogether the air of a patrician dwelling.

Two false gables, each of which was surmounted by an iron weathercock,
intersected the roof of this building, and the high and narrow stoop was
built of the red free-stone of the country. The material of the edifice
itself was, as usual, the small, hard brick of Holland, painted a delicate
cream-color.

A single blow of the massive glittering knocker brought a servant to the
door. The promptitude with which this summons was answered showed that,
notwithstanding the early hour, the Alderman was an expected guest. The
countenance of him who acted as porter betrayed no surprise when he saw
the person who applied for admission, and every movement of the black
denoted preparation and readiness for his reception. Declining his
invitation to enter, however, the Alderman placed his back against the
iron railing of the stoop, and opened a discourse with the negro. The
latter was aged, with a head that was grizzled, a nose that was levelled
nearly to the plane of his face, features that were wrinkled and confused,
and with a form which, though still solid, was bending with its load of
years.

"Brave cheer to thee, old Cupid!" commenced the burgher, in the hearty
and cordial manner with which the masters of that period were wont to
address their indulged slaves. "A clear conscience is a good night-cap,
and you look bright as the morning sun! I hope my friend the young Patroon
has slept sound as yourself, and that he has shown his face already, to
prove it."

The negro answered with the slow clipping manner that characterized his
condition and years.

"He'm werry wakeful, Masser Al'erman. I t'ink he no sleep half he time,