"But," exclaimed I, "supposing all men forgot them! Would they quietly lie down and die, without ****** sign of their extremity?""If such were the rule the Poor Clares would willingly do it; but their founder appointed a remedy for such extreme cases as you suggest.They have a bell--'tis but a small one, as I have heard, and has yet never been rung in the memory man: when the Poor Clares have been without food for twenty-four hours, they may ring this bell, and then trust to our good people of Antwerp for rushing to the rescue of the Poor Clares, who have taken such blessed care of us in all our straits."It seemed to me that such rescue would be late in the day; but I did not say what I thought.I rather turned the conversation, by asking my landlord if he knew, or had ever heard, anything of a certain Sister Magdalen.
"Yes," said he, rather under his breath, "news will creep out, even from a convent of Poor Clares.Sister Magdalen is either a great sinner or a great saint.She does more, as I have heard, than all the other nuns put together; yet, when last month they would fain have made her mother-superior, she begged rather that they would place her below all the rest, and make her the meanest servant of all.""You never saw her?" asked I.
"Never," he replied.
I was weary of waiting for Father Bernard, and yet I lingered in Antwerp.The political state of things became worse than ever, increased to its height by the scarcity of food consequent on many deficient harvests.I saw groups of fierce, squalid men, at every corner of the street, glaring out with wolfish eyes at my sleek skin and handsome clothes.
At last Father Bernard returned.We had a long conversation, in which he told me that, curiously enough, Mr.Gisborne, Lucy's father, was serving in one of the Austrian regiments, then in garrison at Antwerp.I asked Father Bernard if he would make us acquainted;which he consented to do.But, a day or two afterwards, he told me that, on hearing my name, Mr.Gisborne had declined responding to any advances on my part, saying he had adjured his country, and hated his countrymen.
Probably he recollected my name in connection with that of his daughter Lucy.Anyhow, it was clear enough that I had no chance of ****** his acquaintance.Father Bernard confirmed me in my suspicions of the hidden fermentation, for some coming evil, working among the "blouses" of Antwerp, and he would fain have had me depart from out the city; but I rather craved the excitement of danger, and stubbornly refused to leave.
One day, when I was walking with him in the Place Verte, he bowed to an Austrian officer, who was crossing towards the cathedral.
"That is Mr.Gisborne," said he, as soon as the gentleman was past.
I turned to look at the tall, slight figure of the officer.He carried himself in a stately manner, although he was past middle age, and from his years might have had some excuse for a slight stoop.As I looked at the man, he turned round, his eyes met mine, and I saw his face.Deeply lined, sallow, and scathed was that countenance;scarred by passion as well as by the fortunes of war.'Twas but a moment our eyes met.We each turned round, and went on our separate way.
But his whole appearance was not one to be easily forgotten; the thorough appointment of the dress, and evident thought bestowed on it, made but an incongruous whole with the dark, gloomy expression of his countenance.Because he was Lucy's father, I sought instinctively to meet him everywhere.At last he must have become aware of my pertinacity, for he gave me a haughty scowl whenever Ipassed him.In one of these encounters, however, I chanced to be of some service to him.He was turning the corner of a street, and came suddenly on one of the groups of discontented Flemings of whom I have spoken.Some words were exchanged, when my gentleman out with his sword, and with a slight but skilful cut drew blood from one of those who had insulted him, as he fancied, though I was too far off to hear the words.They would all have fallen upon him had I not rushed forwards and raised the cry, then well known in Antwerp, of rally, to the Austrian soldiers who were perpetually patrolling the streets, and who came in numbers to the rescue.I think that neither Mr.
Gisborne nor the mutinous group of plebeians owed me much gratitude for my interference.He had planted himself against a wall, in a skilful attitude of fence, ready with his bright glancing rapier to do battle with all the heavy, fierce, unarmed men, some six or seven in number.But when his own soldiers came up, he sheathed his sword;and, giving some careless word of command, sent them away again, and continued his saunter all alone down the street, the workmen snarling in his rear, and more than half-inclined to fall on me for my cry for rescue.I cared not if they did, my life seemed so dreary a burden just then; and, perhaps, it was this daring loitering among them that prevented their attacking me.Instead, they suffered me to fall into conversation with them; and I heard 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 out of me the name of his aggressor, but I refused to tell it.
Another of the group heard his inquiry, and made answer--"I know the man.He is one Gisborne, aide-de-camp to the General-Commandant.Iknow him well."
He began to tell some story in connection with Gisborne in a low and muttering voice; and while he was relating a tale, which I saw excited their evil blood, and which they evidently wished me not to hear, I sauntered away and back to my lodgings.