for a slight stoop. As I looked atthe man, he turned round, his eyes met mine, and I saw his face. Deeplylined, sallow, and scathed was that countenance; scarred by passion aswell as by the fortunes of war. ’Twas but a moment our eyes met. Weeach turned round, and went on our separate way.
But his whole appearance was not one to be easily forgotten; the thoroughappointment of the dress, and evident thought bestowed on it, made but anincongruous whole with the dark, gloomy expression of his countenance.Because he was Lucy’s father, I sought instinctively to meet himeverywhere. At last he must have become aware of my pertinacity, for hegave me a haughty scowl whenever I passed him. In one of theseencounters, however, I chanced to be of some service to him. He wasturning the corner of a street, and came suddenly on one of the groups ofdiscontented Flemings of whom I have spoken. Some words were exchanged,when my gentleman out with his sword, and with a slight but skilful cutdrew blood from one of those who had insulted him, as he fancied, thoughI was too far off to hear the words. They would all have fallen upon himhad I not rushed forwards and raised the cry, then well known in Antwerp,of rally, to the Austrian soldiers who were perpetually patrolling thestreets, and who came in numbers to the rescue. I think that neither Mr.Gisborne nor the mutinous group of plebeians owed me much gratitude formy interference. He had planted himself against a wall, in a skilfulattitude of fence, ready with his bright glancing rapier to do battlewith all the heavy, fierce, unarmed men, some six or seven in number.But when his own soldiers came up, he sheathed his sword; and, givingsome careless word of command, sent them away again, and continued hissaunter all alone down the street, the workmen snarling in his rear, andmore than half-inclined to fall on me for my cry for rescue. I cared notif they did, my life seemed so dreary a burden just then; and, perhaps,it was this daring loitering among them that prevented their attackingme. Instead, they suffered me to fall into conversation with them; and Iheard some of their grievances. Sore and heavy to be borne were they,and no wonder the sufferers were savage and desperate.
The man whom Gisborne had wounded across his face would fain have got outof me the name of his aggressor, but I refused to tell it. Another ofthe group heard his inquiry, and made answer—“I know the man. He is oneGisborne, aide-de-camp to the General-Commandant. I know him well.”
He began to tell some story in connection with Gisborne in a low andmuttering voice; and while he was relating a tale, which I saw excitedtheir evil blood, and which they evidently wished me not to hear, Isauntered away and back to my lodgings.
That night Antwerp was in open revolt. The inhabitants rose in rebellionagainst their Austrian masters. The Austrians, holding the gates of thecity, remained at first pretty quiet in the citadel; only, from time totime, the boom of the great cannon swept sullenly over the town. But ifthey expected the disturbance to die away, and spend itself in a fewhours’ fury, they were mistaken. In a day or two, the rioters heldpossession of the principal municipal buildings. Then the Austrianspoured forth in bright flaming array, calm and smiling, as they marchedto the posts assigned, as if the fierce mob were no more to them then theswarms of buzzing summer flies. Their practised manœuvres, theirwell-aimed shot, told with terrible effect; but in the place of one slainrioter, three sprang up of his blood to avenge his loss. But a deadlyfoe, a ghastly ally of the Austrians, was at work. Food, scarce and dearfor months, was now hardly to be obtained at any price. Desperateefforts were being made to bring provisions into the city, for therioters had friends without. Close to the city port, nearest to theScheldt, a great struggle took place. I was there, helping the rioters,whose cause I had adopted. We had a savage encounter with the Austrians.Numbers fell on both sides: I saw them lie bleeding for a moment: then avolley of smoke obscured them; and when it cleared away, they weredead—trampled upon or smothered, pressed down and hidden by thefreshly-wounded whom those last guns had brought low. And then agray-robed and grey-veiled figure came right across the flashing guns andstooped over some one, whose life-blood was ebbing away; sometimes it wasto give him drink from cans which they carried slung at their sides;sometimes I saw the cross held above a dying man, and rapid prayers werebeing uttered, unheard by men in that hellish din and clangour, butlistened to by One above. I saw all this as in a dream: the reality ofthat stern time was battle and carnage. But I knew that these grayfigures, their bare feet all wet with blood, and their faces hidden bytheir veils, were the Poor Clares—sent forth now because dire agony wasabroad and imminent danger at hand. Therefore, they left theircloistered shelter, and came into that thick and evil mêlée.
Close to me—driven past me by the struggle of many fighters—came theAntwerp burgess with the scarce-healed scar upon his face; and in aninstant more, he was thrown by the press upon the Austrian officerGisborne, and ere either had recovered the shock, the burgess hadrecognized his opponent.
“Ha! the Englishman Gisborne!” he cried, and threw himself upon him withredoubled fury. He had struck him hard—the Englishman was down; when outof the smoke came a dark-gray figure, and threw herself right under theuplifted flashing sword. The burgess’s arm stood arrested. NeitherAustrians nor Anversois willingly harmed the Poor Clares.
“Leave him to me!” said a low stern voice. “He is mine enemy—mine formany years.”
Those words were the last I heard. I myself was struck down by a bullet.I remember nothing more for days. When I came to myself, I was at theextremity of weakness, and was craving for food to recruit my strength.My landlord sat watching me. He, too, looked pinched and shrunken; hehad heard of my wounded state, and sought me out. Yes! the strugglestill continued, but the famine was sore: and some, he had heard, haddied for lack of food. The tears stood in his eyes as he spoke. Butsoon he shook off his weakness, and his natural cheerfulness returned.Father Bernard had been to see me—no one else. (Who should, indeed?)Father Bernard would come back that afternoon—he had promised. ButFather Bernard never came, although I was up and dressed, and lookingeagerly for him.
My landlord brought me a meal which he had cooked himself: of what it wascomposed he would not say, but it was most excellent, and with everymouthful I seemed to gain strength. The good man sat looking at myevident enjoyment with a happy smile of sympathy; but, as my appetitebecame satisfied, I began to detect a certain wistfulness in his eyes, asif craving for the food I had so nearly devoured—for, indeed, at thattime I was hardly aware of the extent of the famine. Suddenly, there wasa sound of many rushing feet past our window. My landlord opened one ofthe sides of it, the better to learn what was going on. Then we heard afaint, cracked, tinkling bell, coming shrill upon the air, clear anddistinct from all other sounds. “Holy Mother!” exclaimed my landlord,“the Poor Clares!”
He snatched up the fragments of my meal, and crammed them into my hands,bidding me follow. Down stairs he ran, clutching at more food, as thewomen of his house eagerly held it out to him; and in a moment we were inthe street, moving along with the great current, all tending towards theConvent of the Poor Clares. And still, as if piercing our ears with itsinarticulate cry, came the shrill tinkle of the bell. In that strangecrowd were old men trembling and sobbing, as they carried their littlepittance of food; women with tears running down their cheeks, who hadsnatched up what provisions they had in the vessels in which they stood,so that the burden of these was in many cases much greater than thatwhich they contained; children, with flushed faces, grasping tight themorsel of bitten cake or bread, in their eagerness to carry it safe tothe help of the Poor Clares; strong men—yea, both Anversois andAustrians—pressing onward with set teeth, and no word spoken; and overall, and through all, came that sharp tinkle—that cry for help inextremity.
We met the first torrent of people returning with blanched and piteousfaces: they were issuing out of the convent to make way for the offeringsof others. “Haste, haste!” said they. “A Poor Clare is dying! A PoorClare is dead for hunger! God forgive us and our city!”
We pressed on.
The stream bore us along where it would. We were carriedthrough refectories, bare and crumbless; into cells over whose doors theconventual name of the occupant was written. Thus it was that I, withothers, was forced into Sister Magdalen’s cell. On her couch layGisborne, pale unto death, but not dead. By his side was a cup of water,and a small morsel of mouldy bread, which he had pushed out of his reach,and could not move to obtain. Over against his bed were these words,copied in the English version “Therefore, if thine enemy hunger, feedhim; if he thirst, give him drink.”
Some of us gave him of our food, and left him eating greedily, like somefamished wild animal. For now it was no longer the sharp tinkle, butthat one solemn toll, which in all Christian countries tells of thepassing of the spirit out of earthly life into eternity; and again amurmur gathered and grew, as of many people speaking with awed breath, “APoor Clare is dying! a Poor Clare is dead!”
Borne along once more by the motion of the crowd, we were