"Poor Don Quixote would have run a hopeless tilt in this part of
the world," said Ben after Lambert had been pointing out some of the
oddities and beauties of the suburbs. "It is all windmills. You remember
his terrific contest with one, I suppose."

"No," said Lambert bluntly.

"Well, I don't, either, that is, not definitely. But there was something
of that kind in his adventures, and if there wasn't, there should have
been. Look at them, how frantically they whirl their great arms--just
the thing to excite the crazy knight to mortal combat. It bewilders one
to look at them. Help me to count all those we can see, Van Mounen.
I want a big item for my notebook." And after a careful reckoning,
superintended by all the party, Master Ben wrote in pencil, "Saw, Dec.,
184--, ninety-eight windmills within full view of Leyden."

He would have been glad to visit the old brick mill in which the painter
Rembrandt was born, but he abandoned the project upon learning that it
would take them out of their way. Few boys as hungry as Ben was by this
time would hesitate long between Rembrandt's home a mile off and tiffin
close by. Ben chose the latter.

After tiffin, they rested awhile, and then took another, which, for
form's sake, they called dinner. After dinner the boys sat warming
themselves at the inn; all but Peter, who occupied the time in another
fruitless search for Dr. Boekman.

This over, the party once more prepared for skating. They were thirteen
miles from The Hague and not as fresh as when they had left Broek early
on the previous day, but they were in good spirits and the ice was
excellent.

The Palace in the Wood

As the boys skated onward, they saw a number of fine country seats, all
decorated and surrounded according to the Dutchest of Dutch taste, but
impressive to look upon, with their great, formal houses, elaborate
gardens, square hedges, and wide ditches--some crossed by a bridge,
having a gate in the middle to be carefully locked at night. These
ditches, everywhere traversing the landscape, had long ago lost their
summer film and now shone under the sunlight like trailing ribbons of
glass.

The boys traveled bravely, all the while performing the surprising feat
of producing gingerbread from their pockets and causing it to vanish
instantly.

Twelve miles were passed. A few more long strokes would take them to The
Hague, when Van Mounen proposed that they should vary their course by
walking