The day passed as the night. Night came, and with it Rosa, joyous and cheerful as a bird.
“Well?” asked Cornelius.
“Well, all is going on prosperously. This night, without any doubt, our tulip will be in flower.”
“And will it flower black?”
“Black as jet.”
“Without a speck of any other colour?”
“Without one speck.”
“Good Heavens! my dear Rosa, I have been dreaming all night, in the first place of you” (Rosa made a sign of incredulity), “and then of what we must do.”
“Well?”
“Well, and I will tell you now what I have decided on. The tulip once being in flower, and it being quite certain that it is perfectly black, you must find a messenger.”
“If it is no more than that, I have a messenger quite ready.”
“Is he safe?”
“One for whom I will answer—he is one of my lovers.”
“I hope not Jacob.”
“No, be quiet; it is the ferryman of Lœvestein, a smart young man of twenty-five.”
“By Jove!”
“Be quiet,” said Rosa, smiling, “he is still under age, as you have yourself fixed it at from twenty-six to twenty-eight.”
“In fine, do you think you may rely on this young man?”
“As on myself; he would throw himself into the Waal or the Meuse if I bade him.”
“Well, Rosa, this lad may be at Haarlem in ten hours; you will give me paper and pencil, and, perhaps better
