 CHAPTER 39 OF THE CLOISTER AND THE HAARTH by Charles Reed Rude travel is enticing to us English, and so are its records, even though the adventurer be no pilgrim of love, and antique friendship has at least the interest of a fossil. Still, as the true centre of this story is in Holland, it is full time to return thither, and to those ordinary personages and incidents whereof life has been mainly composed in all ages. Hiorien Cately came to Peter's house to claim Margaret's promise, but Margaret was ill in bed, and Peter, on hearing his errand, affronted him and warned him off the premises, and one or two that stood by, were forducking him. For both father and daughter were favourites, and the whole story was in every mouth, and seven bergens in that state of hot, undiscriminating irritation which accompanies popular sympathy. So Hiorien Cately went off in dudgeon and repented him of his good deed. This sort of penitence is not rare, and has the merit of being sincere. Dirich Brauer, who was discovered at the Three Kings making a chatterbox drunk, in order to worm out of him the whereabouts of Martin Wittenhagen, was actually taken and flung into a horse pond, and threatened with worse usage should he ever show his face in the borough again. And finally, municipal jealousy being roused, the burgamaster of Sevenbergen sent a formal missive to the burgamaster of Tegu, reminding him he had overstepped the law and requesting him to apply to the authorities of Sevenbergen on any future occasion when he might have a complaint real or imaginary against any of its townsfolk. The wily Giesbrecht, suppressing his rage at this remonstrance, sent back a civil message to say that the person he had followed to Sevenbergen was a Tegovian, one Gerard, and that he had stolen the town records, that Gerard having escaped into foreign parts and probably taken the documents with him, the whole matter was at an end. Thus he made a virtue of necessity, but in reality his calmness was but a veil, baffled at Sevenbergen. He turned his views elsewhere. He set his emissaries to learn from the family at Tegu whether Gerard had fled, and to his infinite surprise they did not know. This added to his uneasiness. It made him fear Gerard was only lurking in the neighborhood. He would make a certain discovery and would come back and take a terrible revenge. From this time Dierich and others that were about him noticed a change for the worse in Giesbrecht van Svieten. He became a moody, irritable man. A dread lay on him. His eyes cast furtive glances. Like one who expects a blow and knows not from what quarter it is to come, making others wretched had not made him happy. It seldom does. The little family at Tegu, which, but for his violent interference, might in time have cemented its difference without banishing spem gregis to a distant land, wore still the same outward features, but within was no longer the simple happy family this tale opened with. Little Cate knew the share Cornelis and Cybrandt had in banishing Gerard, and though for fear of making more mischief still she never told her mother, yet there were times she shuddered at the bare sight of them and blushed at their hypocritical regrets. Catherine, with a woman's vigilance, noticed this, and with a woman subtlety said nothing, but quietly pondered it and went on watching for more. The black sheep themselves, in their efforts to partake in the general gloom and sorrow, succeeded so far as to impose upon their father and Giles, but the demure satisfaction that lay at their bottom could not escape these feminine eyes. That, noting all, seemed not to note. Thus mistrust and suspicion sat at the table, poor substitutes for Gerard's intelligent face that had brightened the whole circle, unobserved till it was gone. As for the old Hosea, his pride had been wounded by his son's disobedience, and so he bore stiffly up and did his best never to mention Gerard's name. But underneath his spartan cloak nature might be seen tugging at his heartstrings. One anxiety he never affected to conceal. If I but knew where the boy is, and that his life and health are in no danger, small would be my care, would he say, and then a deep sigh would follow. I cannot help thinking that if Gerard had opened the door just then and walked in, there would have been many tears and embraces for him, and few reproaches, or none. One thing took the old couple quite by surprise, publicity. Air Gerard had been gone a week, his adventures were in every mouth, and to make matters worse the popular sympathy declared itself warmly on the side of the lovers, and against Gerard's cruel parents, and that old busybody, the burgamaster, who must put his nose into a business that know-wise concerned him. "'Mother,' said Kate, it is all over the town that Margaret is down with a fever, a burning fever. Her father fears her sadly.' "'Margaret? What Margaret?' inquired Catherine, with a treacherous assumption of calmness and indifference. "'Oh, mother, whom should I mean? Why Gerard's Margaret?' "'Gerard's Margaret!' screamed Catherine. "'How dare you say such a word to me! And I read you never mention that Hussey's name in this house that she has laid bare. She is the ruin of my poor boy, the flower of all my flock. She is the cause that he is not a holy priest in the midst of us, but is roaming the world, and I, a desolate, broken-hearted mother. "'There, do not cry, my girl, I do ill to speak harsh to you. But, oh Kate, you know not what passes in a mother's heart.' "'I bear up before you all. It behoves me to swallow my fears, but at night I see him in my dreams, and still some trouble or other near him. Sometimes he is torn by wild beasts, other times he is in the hands of robbers, and their cruel knives uplifted to strike its poor pale face that one should think would move a stone. "'Oh, when I remember that, while I sit here in comfort, perhaps my poor boy lies dead in some savage place, and all along of that girl. There her very name is Rat's Bane to me. I tremble all over when I hear it. "'I not say anything, nor do anything to grieve you worse, mother,' said Kate tenderly. But she sighed. She, whose name was so fiercely interdicted in this house, was much spoken of, and even pitied elsewhere. All Sevenburgan was sorry for her, and the young men and maidens cast many a pitying glance as they passed, at the little window where the beauty of the village lay dying for love. In this familiar phrase they underrated her spirit and unselfishness. Gerard was not dead, and she was too loyal herself to doubt his constancy. Her father was dear to her and helpless, and but for bodily weakness all her love for Gerard would not have kept her from doing her duties, though she might have gone about them with drooping head and heavy heart. But physical and mental excitement had brought on an attack of fever so violent that nothing but youth and constitution saved her. The malady left her at last, but in that terrible state of bodily weakness in which the patient feels life a burden. Then it is that love and friendship by the bedside are mortal angels with comfort in their voice and healing in their palms. But this poor girl had to come back to life and figure how she could. Many days she lay alone, and the heavy hours rolled like leaden waves over her. In her enfeebled state existence seemed a burden, and life a thing gone by. She could not try her best to get well. Gerard was gone. She had not him to get well for. Often she lay for hours, quite still, with the tears welling gently out of her eyes. One day, waking from an uneasy slumber, she found two women in her room. One was a servant. The other, by the deep fur on her collar and sleeves, was a person of consideration. A narrow band of silvery hair being spared by her quaffur showed her to be past the age when women of sense concealed their years. The looks of both were kind and friendly. Margaret tried to raise herself in the bed, but the old lady placed a hand very gently on her. Lie still, sweetheart. We come not here to put you about, but to comfort you, God willing. Now cheer up a bit, and tell us first, who think you we are? Nay, madam, I know you, though I never saw you before. You are the Dumoiselle Van Neick, and this is Reich Tainus. Gerard has oft spoken of you and of your goodness to him. Madam, he has no friend like you near him now, and at this thought she lay back, and the tears welled out of her eyes in a moment. The good-natured Reich Tainus began to cry for company, but her mistress scolded her. Well, you are a pretty one for a sick room, said she, and she put out a world of innocent art to cheer the patient, and not without some little success. An old woman that has seen life and all its troubles is a sovereign blessing by a sorrowful young woman's side. She knows what to say and what to avoid. She knows how to soothe her and interest her. Air she had been there an hour, she had Margaret's head lying on her shoulder instead of on the pillow, and Margaret's soft eyes dwelling on her with gentle gratitude. Ah, this is her! said the old lady, running her fingers through it. Come and look at it, Reich Tainus! Reich Tainus came and handled it, and praised it unaffectedly. The poor girl that owned it was not quite out of the reach of flattery, owing doubtless to not being dead. In soothe, madam, I did used to think it hideous, but he praised it, and ever since then I have been almost vain of it, saints, forgive me. You know how foolish those are that love. They are greater fools that don't, said the old lady sharply. Margaret opened her lovely eyes and looked at her for her meaning. This was only the first of many visits. In fact, either Margaret van Eyck or Reich Tainus came nearly every day until their patient was convalescent, and she improved rapidly under their hands. Reich Tainus attributed this principally to certain nourishing dishes she prepared in Peter's kitchen, but Margaret herself thought more of the kind words and eyes that kept telling her she had friends to live for. Martin Wittenhagen went straight to Rotterdam to take the bull by the horns. The bull was a biped with a crown for horns. It was Philip the Good, Duke of this, Earl of that, Lord of the other. Arrived at Rotterdam, Martin found the court was at Ghent. To Ghent he went, and sought an audience, but was put off and baffled by lackeys and pages. So he threw himself in his sovereign's way, out hunting, and contrary to all court precedents, commenced the conversation by roaring lustily for mercy. Why, where is the peril, man, said the Duke, looking all round and laughing. Grace for an old soldier hunted down by burgers. Now kings differ in character, like other folk, but there is one trait they have in common. They are mightily inclined to be affable to men of very low estate. These do not vie with them in anything whatever, so jealousy cannot creep in, and they amuse them by their bluntness and novelty, and refresh the poor things with a touch of nature, a rarity in courts. So Philip the Good reigned in his horse and gave Martin almost a tet-a-tet, and Martin reminded him of a certain battlefield where he had received an arrow intended for his sovereign. The Duke remembered the incident perfectly and was graciously pleased to take a cheerful view of it. He could afford to, not having been the one hit. Then Martin told his majesty of Gerrod's first capture in the church, his imprisonment in the tower, and the manoeuvre by which they got him out, and all the details of the hunt, and whether he told it better than I have, or the Duke had not heard so many good stories as you have. Certain it is that sovereign got so wrapped up in it, that when a number of courteous came galloping up and interrupted Martin, he swore like a costamonger and threatened only half in jest to cut off the next head that should come between him and a good story, and when Martin had done, he cried out, St. Luke, what sport goeth on in this mine-earth am I in my own woods, and I see it not. You base-fellows have all the luck, and he was indignant at the partiality of fortune. Lo, you know, this was a man-hunt, said he. I never had the luck to be at a man-hunt. My luck was none so great, replied Martin bluntly. I was on the wrong side of the dog's noses. I saw you were, I forgot that. And royalty was more reconciled to its lot. What would you then? A free pardon, your Highness, for myself and Gerard. For what? For prison-breaking. Go to. The bird will fly from the cage. Tis instinct, besides coop a young man up for loving a young woman. These burgamasters must be void of common sense. What else? For striking down the burgamaster? Oh, the hunted boar will turn to bay. Tis is right, and I hold him less than man that grudges it him. What else? For killing of the bloodhounds? The Duke's countenance fell. It was their life, or mine, said Martin eagerly. I, but I can't have my bloodhounds, my beautiful bloodhounds, sacrificed to—no, no, no, they were not your dogs. Whose dogs, then? The Rangers. Oh, well, I am sorry for him, but as I was saying, I can't have my old soldiers sacrificed to his bloodhounds. Thou shall have thy free pardon. And poor Gerard, and poor Gerard, too, for thy sake. And more, tell thou this burgamaster his doings mislike me. This is to set up for a king, not a burgamaster. I'll have no kings in Holland, but one. Bid him be more humble, or by St. Jude I'll hang him, before his own door, as I hang the burgamaster of what's the name, some town or other in Flanders it was. No, to a summer in Brabant. No matter. I hanged him. I remember that much for oppressing poor folk. The duke then beckoned his chancellor, a perse old fellow that rode like a sack, and bought him right out a free pardon for Martin and one Gerard. This precious document was drawn up in form and signed next day, and Martin hastened home with it. Margaret had left her bed some days, and was sitting pale and pensive by the fireside, when he burst in, waving the parchment and crying, A free pardon, girl, for Gerard, as well as me, sent for him back when you will, All the burgamasters on earth dent lay a finger on him. She flushed all over with joy, and her hands trembled with eagerness, as she took the parchment and devoured it with her eyes, and kissed it again and again, and flung her arms round Martin's neck, and kissed him. When she was calmer she told him heaven had raised her up a friend in the Dame Van Eyck, and I would feign consult her on this good news, but I have not strength to walk so far. What need to walk there is my mule. Your mule, The old soldier or professional pillager laughed, and confessed he had got so used to her that he forgot at times Giesbrecht had a prior claim. Tomorrow he would turn her into the burgamasters' yard, but tonight she should carry Margaret to Turgut. It was nearly dusk. So Margaret ventured, and about seven in the evening she astonished and gladdened her new but ardent friend by arriving at her house with unwonted roses on her cheeks, and Gerard's pardon in her bosom. End of chapter 39. Recording by Tom Denham. Chapter 40 of The Cloister and the Hearth by Charles Reid. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Tom Denham. Some are old in heart at forty, some are young at eighty. Margaret Van Eyck's heart was an evergreen. She loved her young namesake with youthful ardour. Nor was this new sentiment a mere caprice. She was quick at reading character, and so in Margaret Brandt, that which in one of her own sex goes far with an intelligent woman, genuineness. But besides her own sterling qualities, Margaret had from the first a potent ally in the old artist's bosom, human nature. Strange as it may appear to the unobservant, our hearts warm more readily to those we have benefitted than to our benefactors. Some of the Greek philosophers noticed this, but the British Homer has stamped it in immortal lines. I heard and thought how side by side we too had stemmed the battle's tide, in many a well-debated field where Bertram's breast was Philip's shield. I thought on Darien's deserts pale, where death bestrides the evening gale, how o'er my friend my cloak I threw, and fenceless faced the deadly dew. I thought on Quariana's cliff, where rescued from our foundering skiff, through the whitebreaker's wroth I bore, exhausted Bertram to the shore, and when his side and arrow found I sucked the Indian's venom'd wound. These thoughts like torrents rushed along to sweep away my purpose strong. Observe! This assassin's hand is stead by memory, not of benefits received, but benefits conferred. Now Margaret Faneik had been wonderfully kind to Margaret Brandt, had broken through her own habits to go and see her, had nursed her, and soothed her, and petted her, and cured her more than all the medicine in the world. So her heart opened to the recipient of her goodness, and she loved her now far more tenderly than she had ever loved Gerard, though in truth it was purely out of regard for Gerard, she had visited her in the first instance. When, therefore, she saw the roses on Margaret's cheek and read the bit of parchment that had brought them there, she gave up her own views without a murmur. Sweetheart said she, I did desire he should stay in Italy five or six years, and come back rich, and above all an artist, but your happiness is before all, and I see you cannot live without him, so we must have him home as fast as may be. Ah, madam, you see my very thoughts, and the young woman hung her head a moment and blushed. But how to let him know, madam, that passes my skill. He has gone to Italy, but what part, I know not. Stay, he named the cities he should visit. Florence was one, and Rome. But then, finally, being a sensible girl, she divined that a letter addressed my Gerard, Italy, might chance to miss Carrie, and she looked imploringly at her friend for counsel. You are come to the right place, and at the right time, said the old lady. Here was this Hans Memling with me today. He is going to Italy, girl, no later than next week, to improve his hand, he says. Not before it was needed, I do assure you. But how is he to find my Gerard? Why, he knows your Gerard's child. They have sub-tiered more than once, and were like hand and glove. Now, as his business is the same as Gerard's, he will visit the same places as Gerard, and soon or late, he must fall in with him. Wherefore, get you a long letter written, and copy out this pardon into it, and I'll answer for the messenger. In six months at farthest, Gerard shall get it, and when he shall get it, then he will kiss it, and put it in his bosom, and come flying home. What are you smiling at? And now what makes your cheeks so red? And what you are smothering me for, I cannot think. Yes, happy days are coming to my little pearl. Meantime, Martin sat in the kitchen, with the blackjack before him, and Reichthainus spinning beside him, and wow, but she pumped him that night. This Hans Hemling was an old pupil of Jan van Eyck and his sister. He was a painter not withstanding Margaret's sneer, and a good soul enough with one fault. He loved the nippecan cannequin and the brown bowl more than they deserve. This singular penchant kept him from amassing fortune, and was the cause that he often came to Margaret van Eyck for a meal, and sometimes for a groat. But this gave her a claim on him, and she knew he would not trifle with any commission she should entrust to him. The letter was duly written, and left with Margaret van Eyck, and the following week, sure enough, Hans Memling returned from Flanders. Margaret van Eyck gave him the letter, and a piece of gold towards his travelling expenses. He seemed in a hurry to be off. All the better, said the old artist, he will be the sooner in Italy. But as there are horses who burn and rage to start, and after the first yard or two want the whip, so all this hurry cooled into inaction, when Hans got as far as the principal hostelry of Tegu, and saw two of his boon companions sitting in the bare window. He went in for a parting glass with them, but when he offered to pay, they would not hear of it. No, he was going on a long journey. They would treat him. Everybody must treat him, the landlord and all. It resulted from this treatment that his tongue got as loose as if the wine had been oil, and he confided to the convivial crew that he was going to show the Italians how to paint. Next, he sang his exploits in battle, for he had handled a pike, and his amorous successes with females not present to oppose their version of the incidents. In short, plenus rimarum erat hook illuk difluibat. And among the miscellaneous matters that oozed out, he must blab, that he was entrusted with a letter to a townsman of theirs, one Gerard, a good fellow. He added, You're all good fellows, and to impress his eulogy, slapped Cybrandt on the back so heartily as to drive the breath out of his body. Cybrandt got round the table to avoid this muscular approval, but listened to every word, and learned for the first time that Gerard was gone to Italy. However, to make sure, he affected to doubt it. My brother Gerard is never in Italy. You lie, you cur! roared Hans, taking instantly the irascible turn, and not being clear enough to see that he, who now sat opposite him, was the same he had praised and hit when beside him. If he is ten times your brother, he is in Italy. What call ye this? There read me that superscription, and he flung down a letter on the table. Cybrandt took it up, and examined it gravely, but eventually laid it down with the remark that he could not read. However, one of the company by some immense fortuity could read, and proud of so rare an accomplishment, took it and read it out. To Gerard Eliasson of Turgo, these by the hand of the trusty Hans Memling with all speed. Tis excellently well-written, said the reader, examining every letter. I, said Hans bombastically and small wonder, tis writ by a famous hand by Margaret, sister of Jan van Eyck, blessed and honoured be his memory. She is an old friend of mine, is Margaret van Eyck. Miscellaneous Hans then diverged into forty topics. Cybrandt stole out of the company, and went in search of Cornelis. They put their heads together over the news. Italy was an immense distance off, if they could only keep him there. Keep him there? Nothing would keep him long from his Margaret. Curse her, said Cybrandt. Why didn't she die when she was about it? She die? She would outlive the pest of Exus. And Cornelis was wroth at her selfishness in not dying to oblige. These two black sheep kept putting their heads together, and tainting each other worse and worse, till at last their corrupt hearts conceived a plan for keeping Gerard in Italy all his life, and so securing his share of their father's substance. But when they had planned it, there were no nearer the execution, for that required talent, so iniquity came to a standstill. But presently, as if Satan had come between the two heads, and whispered into the right ear of one, and the left of the other simultaneously, they both burst out, The Burgamaster! They went to Gisbrecht fanzvitten, and he received them at once, for the man who is under the torture of suspense catches eagerly at knowledge. Certainty is often painful, but seldom, like suspense, intolerable. You have news of Gerard? said he eagerly. Then they told about the letter, and Hans Memling. He listened with restless eye. Who read the letter? Margaret Van Eyck was the reply, for they naturally thought the contents were by the same hand as the superscription. Are you sure? And he went to a draw, and drew out a paper written by Margaret Van Eyck, while treating with the borough for her house. Was it writ like this? Yes, tis the same writing, said Cybrand boldly. Good! and now what would ye of me? said Gisbrecht, with beating heart, but a carelessness so well feigned that it staggered them. They fumbled with their bonnets, and stammered, and spoke a word or two, then hesitated, and beat about the bush, and let out by degrees that they wanted a letter written, to say something that might keep Gerard in Italy, and this letter they proposed to substitute in Hans Memling's wallet for the one he carried. While these fumbled with their bonnets, and their iniquity, and vacillated between respect for a burgamaster, and suspicion that this one was as great a rogue as themselves, and somehow or other, on their side against Gerard, pros and cons were coursing one another to and fro in the keen old man's spirit. Vengeance said, let Gerard come back and feel the weight of the law. Prudence said, keep him a thousand miles off. But then Prudence said also, why do dirty work on a doubtful chance? Why put it in the power of these two rogues to tarnish your name? Finally, his strong persuasion that Gerard was in possession of a secret by means of which he could wound him to the quick, coupled with his caution, found words thus, It is my duty to aid the citizens that cannot write, but for their matter I will not be responsible. Tell me then, what shall I write? Something about this Margaret. Aye, aye, the cheer's false, the cheer's married to another, I'll go bale. Nay, burgamaster, nay, not for all the world! cried Cybron. Gerard would not believe it, or put half, and then he would come back to see. No, say that she is dead. Dead? What, at her age will he credit that? Sooner than the other, why she was nearly dead, so it is not to say a downright lie after all. And you think that will keep him in Italy? We are sure of it, are we not corny-less? Aye, said corny-less, our Gerard will never leave Italy now he is there. It was always his dream to get there. He would come back for his Margaret, but not for us. What cares he for us? He despises his own family, always did. This would be a bitter pill to him, said the old hypocrite. It will be for his good in the end, replied the young one. What avails famine-wedding thirst? said corny-less. And the grief you are preparing for him so coolly, he's, Brecht, spoke sarcastically, but tasted his own vengeance all the time. Oh, a lie is not like a blow with a kirtle axe. It hacks no flesh and breaks no bones. A kirtle axe, said Cybrandt? No, not even like a stroke with a cudgel, and he shot a sly, envenomed glance at the burgamaster's broken nose. Giesbrecht's face darkened with ire when this adder's tongue struck his wound. But it told, as intended, the old man bristled with hate. Well, said he, tell me what to write for you, and I must write it. But take notice, you bear the blame if ought turns amiss. Not the hand which writes, but the tongue which dictates doth the deed. The brothers assented, warmly, sneering within. Giesbrecht then drew his incorn towards him, and laid the specimen of Margaret Van Eyck's writing before him. And made some enquiries as to the size and shape of the letter. When an unlooked-for interruption occurred, Jorien Kirtle burst hastily into the room, and looked vexed at not finding him alone. Thou seest I have matter on hand, good fellow. Aye, but this is grave. I bring good news, but is not for every ear. The burgamaster rose, and drew Jorien aside into the embrasure of his deep window, and then the brothers heard them converse in low but eager tones. It ended by Giesbrecht sending Jorien out to saddle his mule. He then addressed the black sheep with a sudden coldness that amazed them. I prized the piece of households, but this is not a thing to be done in a hurry. We will see about it. We will see. But burgamaster the man will be gone, it will be too late. Where is he? At the hostel he drinking. Well, keep him drinking. We will see. We will see. And he sent them off, discomforted. To explain all this, we must retrograde a step. This very morning, then, Margaret Brandt had met Jorien Kettle near her own door. He passed her with a scowl. This struck her, and she remembered him. Stay, said she. Yes, it is the good man who saved him. Oh, why have you not been near me since? And why have you not come for the parchment? Was it not true about the hundred crowns? Jorien gave a snot, but seeing her face that looked so candid began to think there might be some mistake. He told her he had come, and how he had been received. Alas, said she, I knew not of this. I lay at death's door. She then invited him to follow her, and took him into the garden, and showed in the spot where the parchment were buried. Martin was for taking them up, but I would not let him. He put them there, and I said none should move them, but you, who had earned them so well of him and me. Give me a spade! cried Jorien eagerly. But stay, no, he is a suspicious man. You are sure they are there still? I will openly take the blame if human hand had touched them. Then keep them but two hours more, I pray thee, good Margaret, said Jorien, and ran off to the stathouse of Tergu, a joyful man. The burgamaster jogged along towards Sevenburgen, with Jorien striding beside him, giving him assurance that in an hour's time the missing parchment would be in his hand. Ah, master, said he, lucky for us it wasn't a thief that took them. Not a thief? Not a thief? What call you him, then? Well, saving your presence, I call him a jack-door. This is jack-door's work, if ever there was. Take the thing you are least in need of and hide it. That's a jack-door. I should know, added Jorien, oracularly, for I was brought up along with a chuff. He and I were born the same year, but he cut his teeth long before me, and wow, but my life was a burden for years all along of him. If you had but a hole in your hose no bigger than a groat, in went his beak like a gimlet, and for stealing, chariot all over. What he wanted least, and any poor Christian in the house wanted most, that went first. Mother was a notable woman, so if she did but look round, away flew her thimble. Father lived by cord-waining, so about sunrise Jack went diligently off with his all, his wax, and his twine. After that make your bread how you could. One day I heard my mother tell him to his face he was enough to corrupt half a dozen other children, and he only cocked his eye at her, and next minute away with the nursing shoe off his very foot. Now this Gerard is tarred with the same stick. The parchments are no more used to him than a thimble or an awl to Jack. He took them out of pure mischief and hid them, and you would never have found them but for me. I believe you are right, said Giesbrecht, and I have vexed myself more than need. When they came to Peter's gate he felt uneasy. I wish it had been anywhere but here. Jorien reassured him. The girl is honest and friendly, said he. She had nothing to do with taking them I'll be sworn, and he led him into the garden. There, master, if a face is to be believed, hear their lie, and see the mould is loose. He ran for a spade which was stuck up in the ground at some distance, and soon went to work at uncovered apparchment. Giesbrecht saw it, and thrust him aside, and went down on his knees and tore it out of the hole. His hands trembled, and his face shorn. He threw out parchment after parchment, and Jorien dusted them and cleared them and shook them. Now, when Giesbrecht had thrown out a great many, his face began to darken and lengthen, and when he came to the last he put his hands to his temples, and seemed to be all amazed. What mystery lies here, he gasped, are fiends mocking me? Dig deeper, there must be another! Jorien drove the spade in and threw out quantities of hard mould. In vain, and even while he dug, his master's mood had changed. Treason, treachery, he cried. You knew of this. You what, master, in heaven's name? Kate, if you knew there was another one worth all these twice told. Tis false, cried Jorien, made suspicious by the other's suspicion. Tis a trick to rob me of my hundred crowns. Oh, I know you, Berger Master, and Jorien was ready to whimper. A mellow voice fell on them both, like oil upon the waves. No good man, it is not false, nor yet is it quite true, there was another parchment. There, there, there, where is it? But, continued Margaret calmly, it was not a town record. So you have gained your hundred crowns, good man. It was but a private deed, between the Berger Master here, and my grandfather, Floris Brandt. Where is it, girl? That is all we want to know. Have patience, and I shall tell you. Gerard read the title of it, and he said, This is as much yours as the Berger Masters, and he put it apart to read it with me at his leisure. It is in the house, then, said the Berger Master, recovering his calmness. No, sir, said Margaret gravely, it is not. Then, in a voice that faltered suddenly, You hunted, my poor Gerard, so hard, and so close, That you gave him no time to think of ought, but his life, and his grief. The parchment was in his bosom, and he hath tain it with him. Wither, wither, ask me no more, sir. What right is yours to question me thus? It was for your sake, good man, I put force upon my heart, and came out here, and bore to speak at all to this hard old man. For when I think of the misery he has brought on him and me, the sight of him is more than I can bear. And she gave an involuntary shudder, and went slowly in, with her hand to her head, crying bitterly. Remorse for the past, and dread of the future, the slow but as he now felt the inevitable future, avarice and fear, all tugged in one short moment at Giesbrecht's tough heart. He hung his head, and his arms fell listless by his sides. A coarse chuckle made him start round, and there stood Martin Wittenhagen, leaning on his bow, and sneering from ear to ear. At sight of the man and his grinning face, Giesbrecht's worst passions awoke. Ho! Attach him! Seize him! Traitor and thief! cried he. Dog, thou shalt pay for all! Martin, without a word, calmly thrust the duke's pardon under Giesbrecht's nose. He looked, and had not a word to say. Martin followed up his advantage. The duke and I are soldiers. He won't let you greasy burgers trample on an old comrade. He bad me carry you a message, too. The duke sent a message to me. Aye! I told him of your masterful doings, of your imprisoning Gerard for loving a girl, and says he, tell him, this is to be a king, not a burgamaster. I'll have no kings in Holland but one. Bid him be more humble, or I'll hang him at his own door. Giesbrecht trembled. He thought the duke capable of the deed, as I hanged the burgamaster of Thingamibob. The duke could not mind which of you he had hung, or in what part such trifles stick not in a soldier's memory. But he was sure he had hanged one of you for grinding poor folk, and I'm the man to hang another, quote the good duke. These repeated insults from so mean a man, coupled with his invulnerability, shielded as he was by the duke, drove the choloric old man into a fit of impotent fury. He shook his fist at the soldier, and tried to threaten him, but could not speak for the rage and mortification that choked him. Then he gave a sort of screech, and coiled himself up in eye and form, like a rattlesnake about to strike, and spat furiously upon Martin's doublet. The thick-skinned soldier treated this ebullition with genuine contempt. Here's a venomous old toad. He knows a kick from this foot would send him to his last home, and he wants me to cheat the gallows. But I have slain too many men in fair fight to lift limb against anything less than a man, and this I count no man. What is it, in Evan's name, an old goat-skin bag full of rotten bones? My mule! My mule! screamed Giesbrecht. Jorien helped the old man up, trembling in every joint. Once in the saddle, he seemed to gather in a moment a natural figure, and the figure that went flying to Tergoo was truly weird-like and terrible, so old and whizzing the face, so white and reverent the streaming hair, so baleful the eye, so fierce the fury which shook the bent frame that went spurring like mad, while the quavering voice yelled, I'll make their heart take, I'll make their heart take, I'll make their heart take, I'll make their heart take, all of them, all, all, all. The black sheep sat disconsolate amidst the convivial crew, and eyed Hans Memling's wallet. For more ease he had taken it off, and flung it on the table. How readily they could have slipped out that letter and put in another. For the first time in their lives they were sorry they had not learned to write like their brother. And now Hans began to talk of going, and the brothers agreed in a whisper to abandon their project for the time. They had scarcely resolved this when Dirich Brauer stood suddenly in the doorway and gave them a wink. They went out to him. Come to the burgamaster with all speed, said he. They found Giesbrecht seated at a table, pale and agitated. Before him lay Margaret Fannike's handwriting. I have written what you desire, said he. Now for the superscription. What were the words? Did ye see? We cannot read, said Cornelis. Said Cornelis. Then is all this labour lost? cried Giesbrecht angrily. Doats! Nay, but, said Cybran, I heard the words read, and I have not lost them. They were to Gerard Eliasson, these by the hand of the trusty Hans Memling with all speed. Tis well. Now how was the letter folded? How big was it? Longer than that one. And not so long as this. Tis well. Where is he? At the hostelry. Come then, take you this groat and treat him. Then ask to see the letter, and put this in place of it. Come to me with the other letter. The brothers assented, took the letter, and went to the hostelry. They had not been gone a minute when Dierich Brauer issued from the stathouse, and followed them. He had his orders, not to let them out of his sight, till the true letter was in his master's hands. He watched outside the hostelry. He had not long to wait. They came out almost immediately with downcast looks. Dierich made up to them. Too late, they cried, too late, he is gone. Gone? How long? Scares five minutes. Cursed chance. You must go back to the burger master at once, said Dierich Brauer. To what end? No matter. Come, and he hurried them to the stathouse. Gisbrecht van Svieten was not the man to accept a defeat. Well, said he, on hearing the ill news, suppose he is gone. Is he mounted? No. Then what hinders you to come up with him? But what avails coming up with him? There are no hostilities on the road, he is gone. Fools, said Gisbrecht, is there no way of emptying a man's pockets but liquor and slight of hand? A meaningless letter. A meaningless letter. A meaningless letter. A meaningless letter. A meaningless letter. A meaningless letter. A meaningless letter. A meaningless letter. The meaning that passed between Gisbrecht and Dierich aided the brothers' comprehension. They changed colour and lost all zeal for the business. No, no, we do not hate our brother. We will not get us as hanged despite him. Said Ziebrandt that would be a fool's trick. he feared to tackle one man, being two, hearts of hair that he are? Oh, why cannot I be young again? I'd do it single-handed." The old man now threw off all disguise, and showed them his heart was in this deed. He then flattered and besought and jeered them alternately, but he found no eloquence could move them to an action, however dishonorable, which was attended with danger. At last he opened a draw, and showed them a pile of silver coins. "'Change but those letters for me,' he said, and each of you shall thrust one hand into this draw, and take away as many of them as you can hold.' The effect was magical. Their eyes glittered with desire, their whole bodies seemed to swell and rise into male energy. "'Swear it, then,' said Cybrandt, "'I swear it! No, on the crucifix!' Gisbrecht swore upon the crucifix. The next minute the brothers were on the road in pursuit of Hans Memling. They came in sight of him about two leagues from Tegu, but though they knew he had no weapon but his staff, they were too prudent to venture on him in daylight, so they fell back. But being now three leagues and more from the town, and on a grassy road, sundown, moon not yet up, honest Hans suddenly found himself attacked before and behind at once by men with uplifted knives, who cried in loud, though somewhat shaky voices, "'Stand and deliver!' The attack was so sudden and so well planned that Hans was dismayed. "'Stay me not, good fellows,' he cried. "'I am but a poor man, and she shall have my all. "'So be it, then. Live, but empty thy wallet.' "'There is not in my wallet, good friend, but one letter. "'That we shall see,' said Cybrant, who was the one in front. "'Well, it is a letter.' "'Take it not from me, I pray you. It is worth not, and the good dame would fret that rid it.' "'There,' said Cybrant, take back thy letter, and now empty thy pouch. "'Come, my tarry-not!' But by this time Hans had recovered his confusion, and from a certain flutter in Cybrant, and hard breathing of Cornelis, aided by an indescribable consciousness, felt sure the pair he had to deal with were no heroes. He pretended to fumble for his money, then suddenly thrust his staff fiercely into Cybrant's face, and drove him staggering, and lent Cornelis a back-hearted slush on the ear that sent him twirling like a weather-cock in March, then whirled his weapon over his head, and danced about the road like a figure on springs, shouting, "'Come on, you thieving loons, come on!' It was a plain invitation, yet they misunderstood it so utterly as to take to their heels, with Hans after them, he shouting, "'Stop, thieves!' and they howling with fear and pain as they ran. End of Chapter 40, Recording by Tom Denham Chapter 41 of The Cloyster and the Hearth by Charles Reed This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Tom Denham Denis, placed in the middle of his companions, lest he should be so mad as attempt escape, was carried off in an agony of grief and remorse. For his sake, Gerard had abandoned the German route to Rome, and what was his reward, left all alone in the centre of Burgundy. This was the thought which maddened Denis most, and made him now rave at heaven and earth, now fall into a gloomy silence, so savage and sinister that it was deemed prudent to disarm him. They caught up their leader just outside the town, and the whole cavalcade drew up and baited at the Tete d'Or. The young landlady, though much occupied with the count and still more with the bastard, caught sight of Denis and asked him, somewhat anxiously, what had become of his young companion. Denis, with a burst of grief, told her all, and prayed her to send after Gerard. Now he is parted from me, he will maybe listen to my read, said he, poor wretch, he loves not solitude. The landlady gave a toss of her head. I throw I have been somewhat overkind already, said she, and turned rather red. You will not? Not I. Then, and he poured a volley of curses and abuse upon her, she turned her back upon him, and went off whimpering and saying she was not used to be cursed at, and ordered her hind to saddle two mules. Denis went north with his troop, mute and drooping over his saddle, and quite unknown to him, that voracious young lady made an equestrian toilet in only 40 minutes, she being really in a hurry, and spurred away with her servant in the opposite direction. At dark, after a long march, the bastard and his men reached the white heart. Their arrival caught a prodigious bustle, and it was some time before Manon discovered her old friend among so many. When she did, she showed it only by heightened colour. She did not claim the acquaintance. The poor soul was already beginning to scorn, the base degrees by which she did ascend. Denis saw, but could not smile. The inn reminded him too much of Gerard. ere the night closed, the wind changed. She looked into the room, and beckoned him with her finger. He rose sulkily, and his guards with him. Nay, I would speak a word to thee in private. She drew him to a corner of the room, and there asked him under her breath, Would he do her a kindness? He answered out loud, No, he would not. He was not in the vein to do kindnesses to man or woman. If he did a kindness, it should be to a dog. And not that if he could help it. Alas, good archer, I did you one effed soonce, you and your pretty comrade, said Manon humbly. You did, Dame, you did. Well, then, for his sake, what is to do? Thou knowest my story, I had been unfortunate. Now I am worshipful, but a woman did cast him in my teeth this day. And so twill be ever, while he hangs there, I would have him tamed down well a day. With all my heart, and none dare I ask but thee, will do it? Not I, even if I were not a prisoner. On this stern refusal, the tender Manon sighed, and clasped her palms together despondently. Denis told her she need not fret. There were soldiers of a lower stamp who would not make two bites of such a cherry. It was a mere matter of money. If she could find two angels, he would find two soldiers to do the dirty work of the white heart. This was not very palatable. However, reflecting that soldiers were birds of passage, drinking here to-night, knocked on the head there to-morrow, she said softly, Send them out to me. But prithee, tell them that is for one that is my friend. Let them not think this for me. I should sink into the earth. Times are changed. Denis found warriors glad to win an angel apiece so easily. He sent them out, and instantly dismissing the subject with contempt, sat brooding on his lost friend. Manon and the warriors soon came to a general understanding. But what were they to do with the body when taken down? She murmured, The river is nigh the place. Fling him in, eh? Nay, nay, be not so cruel. Could ye not put him gently and with somewhat weighty? She must have been thinking on the subject in detail, for she was not one to whom ideas came quickly. All was speedily agreed, except the time of payment. The mail-clad itched for it, and sought it in advance. Manon demurred to that. What? Did she doubt their word? Then let her come along with them, or watch them at a distance. Me, said Manon, with horror, I would leave her die than see it done. Which yet you would have done? I, for so is my need, times are changed. She had already forgotten her precept to Denis. An hour later, the disagreeable relic of caterpillar existence ceased to canker the worshipful matron's public life, and the grim eyes of the past to cast malignant glances down into a white hind's clover-field. Total, she made the landlord an average wife, and a prime house-dog, and outlived everybody. Her troops, when they returned to Manon, her troops, when they returned from executing with medieval naivety the precept, off with the old love, received a shock. They found the marketplace black with groups. It had been empty an hour ago. Conscience smote them. This came of meddling with the dead. However, the boulder of the two, encouraged by the darkness, stole forward alone, and slyly mingled with a group. He soon returned to his companion, saying, in a tone of reproach, not strictly reasonable, Ye born fool, it is only a miracle! End of Chapter 41. Recording by Tom Denham Chapter 42 of The Cloyster and the Hearth by Charles Reid This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Tom Denham Letters of fire on the church wall had just inquired with an appearance of genuine curiosity why there was no mass for the duke in this time of trouble. The supernatural expostulation had been seen by many, and had gradually faded, leaving the spectators glued there, gaping. The upshot was that the corporation, not choosing to be behind the angelic powers in loyalty to a temporal sovereign, invested freely in masses. By this an old friend of ours, the curé, profited in hard cash, for which he had a very pretty taste. But for this I would not, of course, have detained you over so trite an occurrence as a miracle. Denis begged for his arms. Why disgrace him as well as break his heart? Then swear on the cross of thy sword, not to leave the bastard's service until the sedition shall be put down. He yielded to necessity, and delivered three volleys of oaths, and recovered his arms and liberty. The troops halted at the three fish, and Marion at sight of him cried out, I'm out of luck, who would have thought to see you again? Then seeing he was sad and rather hurt than amused at this blunt jest, she asked him what was amiss. He told her. She took a bright view of the case. Gerard was too handsome and well-behaved to come to harm. The women, too, would always be on his side. Moreover, it was clear that things must either go well or ill with him. In the former case he would strike in with some good company going to Rome. In the latter he would return home, perhaps be there before his friend. For you have a trifle of fighting to do in Flanders by all accounts. She then brought him his gold pieces, and steadily refused to accept one, though he urged her again and again. Denis was somewhat convinced by her argument, because she concurred with his own wishes, and was also cheered a little by finding her so honest. It made him think a little better of that world in which his poor little friend was walking alone. Foot soldiers in small bodies down to twos and threes were already on the road, making lazily towards Flanders, many of them penniless but passed from town to town by the bailiffs, with orders for food and lodging on the innkeepers. Anthony of Burgundy overtook numbers of these, and gathered them under his standard, so that he entered Flanders at the head of six hundred men. On crossing the frontier he was met by his brother Baldwin, with men, arms, and provisions. He organised his whole force, and marched on in battle-array, through several towns, not only without impediment, but with great acclamations. This loyalty called forth comments not altogether gracious. This rebellion of ours is a bite, growled a soldier called Simon, who had elected himself Denis Comrade. Denis said nothing, but made a little bow to St. Mars to shoot this Anthony of Burgundy dead should the rebellion that had cost him Gerard prove no rebellion. That afternoon they came in sight of a strongly fortified town, and a whisper went through the little army that this was a disaffected place. But when they came in sight the great gate stood open, and the towers that flanked it on each side were manned with a single sentinel apiece, so the advancing force somewhat broke their array and marched carelessly. When they were within a furlong, the drawbridge across the moat rose slowly and creaking till it stood vertical against the fort, and the very moment it settled into this warlike attitude down rattled the port cullis at the gate, and the towers and curtains bristled with lances and crossbows. A stern hum ran through the bastard's front rank and spread to the rear. Halt! cried he. The word went down the line, and they halted. Herald to the gate! A persuievent spurred out of the ranks, and halting twenty yards from the gate raised his bugle with his herald's flag hanging down round it, and blew a summons. A tall figure in brazen armour appeared over the gate. A few fiery words passed between him and the herald, which were not audible, but their import clear, for the herald blew a single keen and threatening note at the walls, and came galloping back with war in his face. The bastard moved out of the line to meet him, and their heads had not been together two seconds, ere he turned in his saddle and shouted, Pioneers to the van! And in a moment hedgers were levelled, and the force took the field and encamped just out of shot from the walls, and away went mounted officers flying south, east and west, to the friendly towns, for catapults, palisades, mantlets, raw hides, tar-barrels, carpenters, provisions, and all the materials for a siege. The bright perspective mightily cheered one drooping soldier. At the first clang of the port cullis his eyes brightened, and his temple flushed, and when the herald came back with battle in his eye he saw it in a moment, and for the first time this many days cried, Courage, tout le monde, le diable est mort! If that great warrior heard how he must have grinned, the besiegers encamped a furlong from the walls, and made roads, kept their pikemen encamp ready for an assault when practicable, and sent for the camp, and sent for the camp, ready for an assault when practicable, and sent forward their sappers, pioneers, catapultiers and cross-bowman. These opened a siege by filling the moat, and mining or breaching the wall et cetera, and as much of their work had to be done under close fire of arrows, quarrels, bolts, stones, and little rocks, the above artists had need of a hundred eyes, and acted in concert with the vigilance and an amount of individual intelligence daring and skill that made a siege very interesting and even amusing to look us on. The first thing they did was to advance their carpenters behind rolling mantelettes, to erect a stockade high and strong on the very edge of the moat. Some lives were lost at this, but not many. For a strong force of crossbowmen, including Denis, rolled their mantelettes up and shot over the workman's heads at every besieged who showed his nose and at every loophole, arrow slit, or other aperture which commanded the particular spot the carpenters happened to be upon. Covered by their condensed fire, these soon raised a high palisade between them and the ordinary missiles from the pierced masonry. But the besieged expected this and ran out at night their boards or wooden penthouses on the top of the curtains. The curtains were built with square holes near the top to receive the beams that supported these structures, the true defence of medieval forts from which the besieged delivered their missiles with far more freedom and variety of range than they could shoot through the oblique but immovable loopholes of the curtain, or even through the sloping krenelettes of the higher towers. On this the besiegers brought up mangonels and set them hurling huge stones at these woodworks and buttering them to pieces. Contemporaneously they built a triangular wooden tower as high as the curtain and kept it ready for use and just out of shot. This was a terrible sight to the besieged. These wooden towers had taken many a town. They began to mine underneath that part of the moat the tower stood frowning at and made other preparations to give it a warm reception. The besiegers also mined but at another part, their object being to get under the square Barbican and throw it down. All this time Denis was behind his mantelette with another arbalestria protecting the workmen and making some excellent shots. These ended by earning him the esteem of an unseen archer who every now and then sent a winged compliment quivering into his mantelette. One came and struck within an inch of the narrow slit through which Denis was squinting at the moment. Pest! cried he, you shoot well, my friend! Come forth and receive my congratulations! Shall merit such as thine hide its head? Comrade, it is one of those cursed Englishmen with his half-L-shaft. I'll not die till I've had a shot at London Wall. On the side of the besieged was a figure that soon attracted great notice by promenading under fire. It was a tall night, clad in complete brass and carrying a light but prodigiously long lance with which he directed the movements of the besieged. And when any disaster befell the besiegers, this tall night and his long lance were pretty sure to be concerned in it. My young reader will say, why did not Denis shoot him? Denis did shoot him, every day of his life. Other arbalestria shot him, archers shot him, everybody shot him. He was there to be shot, apparently. But the abomination was, he did not mind being shot. Nay worse, he got at last so demoralized as not to seem to know when he was shot. He walked his battlements under fire as some stout skipper paces his deck in a suit of flushing, calmly oblivious of the April drops that fall on his woollen armor. At last the besiegers got spiteful and would not waste any more good steel on him, but cursed him and his impervious coat of mail. He took those missiles like the rest. Gunpowder has spoilt war. War was always detrimental to the solid interests of mankind, but in old times it was good for something. It painted well, sung divinely, furnished Iliads. But invisible butchery under a pall of smoke a furlong thick, who is any the better for that? Poet with his notebook may repeat, suave etiem belai certimina magna tueri. But the sentiment is hollow and savers of cuckoo. You can't tueri anything but a horrid row. He didn't say suave etiem ingentem caliginem tueri per campos instructam. They managed better in the Middle Ages. This siege was a small affair, but such as it was, a writer or minstrel could see it and turn an honest penny by singing it. So far then the sport was reasonable and served an end. It was a bright day, clear but not quite frosty. The efforts of the besieging force were concentrated against a space of about two hundred and fifty yards containing two curtains and two towers, one of which was the square Barbican. The other had a pointed roof that was built to overlap, resting on a stone machicolade, and by this means a row of dangerous krenelots between the roof and the masonry grinned down at the nearer assailants and looked not very unlike the grinders of a modern frigate, with each port nearly closed. The curtains were overlapped with penthouses, somewhat shuttered by the manganelles, trebuchets and other slinging engines of the besiegers. On the besieger's edge of the moat was what seemed at first sight a gigantic arsenal, longer than it was broad, peopled by human ants and full of busy, honest industry, and displaying all the various mechanical science of the age in full operation. Here the lever at work, there the winchant pulley, here the balance, there the capstan. Everywhere heaps of stones and piles of fashions, mantelots and rows of fire barrels, mantelots rolling, the hammer tapping all day, horses and carts in endless succession rattling up with materials. Only on looking closer into the hive of industry, you might observe that arrows were constantly flying to and fro, that the cranes did not tenderly deposit their masses of stone, but flung them with an indifference to property, though on scientific principles, and that among the tubs full of arrows, and the tar barrels and the beams, the faggots and other utensils, here and there a workman or a soldier lay flatter than his usual in limited naps, and something more or less feathered stuck in them, and blood and other essentials oozed out. At the edge of the moat opposite the wooden tower, a strong penthouse, which they call a cat, might be seen stealing towards the curtain, and gradually filling up the moat with fashions and rubbish, which the workman flung out at its mouth. It was advanced by two sets of ropes, passing round pulleys, and each worked by a windlass at some distance from the cat. The knight burnt the first cat by flinging, blazing tar barrels on it, so the besiegers made the roof of this one very steep, and covered it with raw hides, and the tar barrels could not harm it. Then the knight made signs with his spear and a little trebuchet behind the walls began dropping stones. Just clear of the wall into the moat, and at last they got the range, and a stone went clean through the roof of the cat, and made an ugly hole. Baldwin of Burgundy saw this, and losing his temper ordered the great catapult that was battering the woodwork of the curtain opposite it, to be turned and levelled slant-wise at this invulnerable night. Denis and his Englishman went to dinner. These two were these being eternally on the watch for one another, had made a sort of distant acquaintance, and conversed by signs, especially on a topic that in peace or war maintains the same importance. Sometimes Denis would put a piece of bread on the top of his mantelette, and then the archer would hang something of the kind out by a string, or the order of invitation would be reversed. Anyway, they always managed to dine together. And now the engineers proceeded to the unusual step of slinging fifty-pound stones at an individual. This catapult was a scientific, simple, and beautiful engine, and very effective in vertical fire at the short ranges of the period. Imagine a fir tree cut down, and set to turn round a horizontal axis on lofty uprights but not in equilibrio, three-fourths of the tree being on the hither side. At the shorter and thicker end of the tree was fastened a weight of half a ton. This butt-end, just before the discharge, pointed toward the enemy. By means of a powerful winch the long tapering portion of the tree was forced down to the very ground and fastened by a bolt, and the stone placed in a sling attached to the tree's nose. But this process, of course, raised the butt-end with its huge weight high in the air, and kept it there struggling in vain to come down. The bolt was now drawn. Gravity, an institution which flourished even then, resumed its sway. The short end swung furiously down, the long end went as furiously round up, and at its highest elevation flung the huge stone out of the sling with a tremendous jerk. In this case the huge mass so flung missed the night, but came down near him on the penthouse and went through it like paper, making an awful gap in roof and floor. Through the latter fell out two inanimate objects. The stone itself and the mangled body of a besieger it had struck. They fell down the high curtain-side, down, down, and struck almost together the sullen waters of the moat, which closed bubbling on them, and kept both the stone and the bone two hundred years till Canon mocked those oft-perturbed waters and civilisation dried them. Aha! A good shot! cried Baldwin of Burgundy. The tall night retired. The besiegers hooted him. He reappeared on the platform of the Barbican, his helmet being just visible above the parapet. He seemed very busy, and soon an enormous Turkish catapult made its appearance on the platform and aided by the elevation at which it was planted, flung a twenty-pound stone some two hundred and forty yards in the air. It bounded after that and knocked some dirt into the Lord Anthony's eye and made him swear. The next stone struck a horse that was bringing up his sheaf of arrows in a cart, bowled the horse over dead like a rabbit, and spilt the cart. It was then turned at the besiegers' wooden tower, supposed to be out of shot. Sir Turk slung stones cut with sharp edges on purpose and struck it repeatedly and broke it in several places. The besiegers turned two of their slinging engines on this monster and kept constantly slinging smaller stones onto the platform of the Barbican and killed two of the engineers. But the Turk, disdained to retort, he flung a forty-pound stone onto the besiegers' great catapult and hitting it in the neighborhood of the axis knocked the whole structure to pieces and sent the engineers skipping and yelling. In the afternoon, as Simon was running back to his mantlet from a palisade where he had been shooting at the besieged, Denis, peeping through his slit, saw the poor fellow suddenly stare and hold out his arms, then roll on his face and a feathered arrow protruded from his back. The archer showed himself a moment to enjoy his skill. It was the Englishman. Denis already prepared shot his bolt and the murderous archer staggered away wounded, but poor Simon never moved. His walls were over. I am unlucky in my comrades, said Denis. The next morning an unwelcome sight greeted the besieged. The cat was covered with mattresses and raw hides and fast-filling up the moat. The knight stoned it but in vain, flung burning tar barrels on it but in vain, then with his own hands he let down by a rope a bag of burning sulfur and pitch and stunk them out, but Baldwin armed like a lobster, ran and bounding on the roof cut the string and the work went on. Then the knight sent fresh engineers into the mine and undermined the place and underpinned it with beams and covered the beams thickly with grease and tar. At break of day the moat was filled and the wooden tower began to move on its wheels towards a part of the curtain on which two catapults were already playing to breach the hordes and clear the way. There was something awful and magical in its approach without visible agency for it was driven by internal rollers worked by leverage. On the top was a platform where stood the first assailing party protected in front by the drawbridge of the turret which stood vertical till lowered onto the wall but better protected by full suits of armour. The besieged slung at the tower and struck it often but in vain. It was well defended with mattresses and hides and presently was at the edge of the moat. The knight barred fire the mine underneath it. Then the Turkish engine flung a stone of half a hundred weight right amongst the knights and carried two away with it off the tower onto the plane. One lay and writhed, the other neither moved nor spake. But now the besieging catapults flung blazing tar barrels and fired the hordes on both sides and the assailants ran up the ladders behind the tower and lowered the drawbridge onto the battered curtain. While the catapults in concert flung tar barrels and fired the adjoining works to dislodge the defenders. The armed men on the platform sprang on the bridge led by Baldwin. The invulnerable knight and his men at arms met them and a fearful combat ensued in which many a figure was seen to fall headlong down off the narrow bridge. But fresh besiegers kept swarming up behind the tower and the besieged were driven off the bridge. Another minute and the town was taken but so well had the firing of the mine been timed that just at this instant the underpinners gave way and the tower suddenly sank away from the walls tearing the drawbridge clear and pouring the soldiers off it against the masonry and onto the dry moat. The besieged uttered a fierce shout and in a moment surrounded Baldwin and his fellows but strange to say offered them quarter. While a party disarmed and disposed of these others fired the turret in fifty places with a sort of hand grenades. At this work who so busy as the tall knight he put the firebags on his long spear and thrust them into the doomed structure late so terrible. To do this he was obliged to stand on a projecting beam of the shattered horde holding on by the hand of a pikeman to steady himself. This provoked Denis. He ran out from his mantlet hoping to escape notice in the confusion and levelling his crossbow missed the night clean but sent his bolt into the brain of the pikeman and the tall knight fell heavily from the wall lance and all. Denis gazed wonder struck and in that unlucky moment suddenly he felt his arm hot then cold and there was an English arrow skewering it. This episode was unnoticed in a much greater matter. The knight, his armor glittering in the morning sun fell headlong but turning as he neared the water struck it with a slap that sounded a mile off. One ever thought to see him again but he fell at the edge of the fascines on which the turret stood all cocked on one side and his spear stuck into them under water and by a mighty effort he got to the side but could not get out. Anthony sent a dozen knights with white flag to take him prisoner. He submitted like a lamb but said nothing. He was taken to Anthony's tent. That worthy laughed at first at the sight of his muddy armor but presently frowning said, I'm marvel sir that so good a knight as you should know his Devois so ill as turn rebel and give us all this trouble. I am no knight. What then? A hosier. A what? Then thy armor shall be stripped off and thou shall be tied to a stake in front of the works and riddled with arrows for a warning to traitors. No, no, no, no, no, no, don't do that. Why not? To, to, to, to townsfolk will ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, hang to the bub, bub, bub, bub, bub, bastard. What? Whom? Your bub, bub, bub, brother Baldwin. What? You have knaves tain him? The warlike hosier nodded. Hang the fool, said Anthony peevishly. The warlike hosier watched his eye and doffing his helmet, took out of the lining an intercepted letter from the duke, bidding the said Anthony come to court immediately as he was to represent the court of Burgundy at the court of England, was to go over and receive the English king's sister and conduct her to her bridegroom, the Earl of Charolois. The mission was one very soothing to Anthony's pride and also to his love of pleasure, for Edward IV held the gayest and most luxurious court in Europe. The sly hosier saw he longed to be off and said, You giga, giga, giga, giga, give ye a thousand angels to raise the siege. And Baldwin, I'll giga, giga, go and send him with the money. It was now dinner time, and a flag of truce being hoisted on both sides, the sham night and the true one dined together and came to a friendly understanding. But what is your grievance, my good friend? Tuta, toota, toota, toota, too much taxes! Denis, on finding the arrow in his right arm, turned his back, which was protected by a long shield, and walked sulkily into camp. He was met by the comte de Jarnac, who had seen his brilliant shot, and finding him wounded into the bargain, gave him a hand full of broad pieces. Has got the better of thy grief, our Balestria, me thinks? My grief, yes, but not my love. As soon as ever I have put down this rebellion, I go to Holland, and there I shall meet with him. This event was nearer than Denis thought. He was relieved from service next day, and though his wound was no trifle, set out with a stout heart to rejoin his friend in Holland. End of Chapter 42, Recording by Tom Denham. Chapter 43 of The Cloyster and the Hearth by Charles Reid. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Tom Denham. A change came over Margaret Brandt. She went about her household duties like one in a dream. If Peter did but speak a little quickly to her, she started and fixed two terrified eyes on him. She went less often to her friend Margaret Van Eyck, and was ill at her ease when there. Instead of meeting her warm old friends caresses, she used to receive them passive and trembling, and sometimes almost shrink from them. But the most extraordinary thing was, she never would go outside her own house in daylight. When she went to Tagoo, it was after dusk, and she returned before daybreak. She would not even go to Mattens. At last Peter, unobservant as he was, noticed it, and asked her the reason. Me thinks the folk all look at me. One day Margaret Van Eyck asked her what was the matter. A scared look, and a flood of tears were all the reply. The old lady expostulated gently. What, sweetheart, afraid to confide your sorrows to me? I have no sorrows, madam, but of my own making. I am kinder treated than I deserve, especially in this house. Then why not come often, my dear? I come oftener than I deserve. And she sighed deeply. There, right is bawling for you, said Margaret Van Eyck. Go, child! What on earth can it be? Turning possibilities over in her mind. She thought Margaret must be mortified at the contempt with which she was treated by Gerald's family. I will take them to task for it, at least such as them as our women. And the very next day she put on her hooded cloak, and followed by Reicht, went to the Hosier's house. Catherine received her with much respect, and thanked her with tears for her kindness to Gerald. But when encouraged by this, her visitor diverged to Margaret Brand. Catherine's eyes dried, and her lips turned to half the size, and she looked as only obstinate ignorant women can look. When they put on this cast of features, you might as well attempt to soften or convince a brick wall. Margaret Van Eyck tried, but all in vain. So then, not being herself used to be thwarted, she got provoked, and at last went out hastily with an abrupt and mutilated curtsy, which Catherine returned with an air rather of defiance than obeisance. Outside the door Margaret Van Eyck found Reicht, conversing with a pale girl on crutches. Margaret Van Eyck was pushing by them with heightened colour, and a scornful toss intended for the whole family, when suddenly a little delicate hand glided timidly into hers. And looking round, she saw two dove-like eyes, with the water in them that sought hers gratefully, and at the same time imploringly. The old lady read this wonderful look, complex as it was, and down went her collar. She stopped and kissed Kate's brow. I see, said she, mind then, I leave it to you. Returned home, she said, I have been to a house today where I have seen a very common thing and a very uncommon thing. I have seen a stupid obstinate woman, and I have seen an angel in the flesh, with a face, if I had it here, I'd take down my brushes once more and try and paint it. Little Kate did not belie the good opinion so hastily formed of her. She waited a better opportunity and told her mother what she had learnt from Reicht Hanus, that Margaret had shed her very blood for Gerald in the wood. See, mother, how she loves him! Who would not love him? Oh, mother, think of it, poor thing! I wench! She has her own trouble, no doubt, as well as we ours. I can't abide the sight of blood, let alone my own. This was a point gained, but when Kate tried to follow it up, she was stopped short. About a month after this, a soldier of the Dalghetti tribe, returning from service in Burgundy, brought a letter one evening to the Hosea's house. He was away on business, but the rest of the family sat at supper. The soldier laid the letter on the table by Catherine, and refusing all geddon for bringing it, went off to Sevenburgen. The letter was unfolded and spread out, and curiously enough, though not one of them could read, they could all tell it was Gerald's handwriting. "'And your father must be away,' cried Catherine. "'Are you not ashamed of yourselves, not one that can read your brother's letter?' But although the words were to them what hieroglyphics are to us, there was something in the letter they could read. There is an art can speak without words, unfettered by the penman's limits. It can steal through the eye into the heart and brain, alike of the learned and unlearned, and it can cross a frontier or sea, yet lose nothing. It is at the mercy of no translator, for it writes an universal language. When therefore they saw this, a picture of two hands clasped together, which Gerald had drawn with his pencil between the two short paragraphs, of which his letter consisted, they read it, and it went straight to their hearts. Gerald was bidding them farewell. And as they gazed on that simple sketch, in every turn and line of which they recognized his manner, Gerald seemed present at bidding them farewell. The women wept over it till they could see it no longer. Giles said, poor Gerald, in a lower voice than seemed to belong to him. Even Cornelis and Cybrandt felt a momentary remorse, and sat silent and gloomy. But how to get the words read to them? They will loathe the show their ignorance and their emotion to a stranger. The Dame Van Eyck, said Kate timidly, and so I will, Kate, she has a good heart. She loves Gerald, too. She will be glad to hear of him. I was short with her when she came here, but I will make my submission, and then she will tell me what my poor child says to me. She was soon at Margaret Van Eyck's house. Racht took her into a room and said, By the minute, she is at her horizons. There was a young woman in the room seated pensively by the stove, but she rose and courteously made way for the visitor. Thank you, young lady, the winter nights are cold, and your stove is a treat. Catherine then, while warming her hands, inspected her companion furtively from head to foot, inclusive. The young person wore an ordinary wimple, but her gown was trimmed with fur, which was in those days almost a sign of superior rank or wealth. But what most struck Catherine was the candour and modesty of the face. She felt sure of sympathy from so good a countenance, and began to gossip. Now, what think you brings me here, young lady? It is a letter. A letter from my poor boy that is far away in some savage part, or rather. And I take shame to say that none of us can read it. I wonder whether you can read? Yes. Can you know? It is much to your credit, my dear. I dare say she won't be long, but every minute is an hour to a poor longing mother. I will read it to you. Bless you, my dear, bless you. In her unfaigned eagerness, she never noticed the suppressed eagerness with which the hand was slowly put out to take the letter. She did not see the tremor with which the fingers closed on it. Come, then, read it to me, prithee, I am wearying for it. The first words are, To my honoured parents, I, and he always did honour us poor soul. God and the saints have you in His holy keeping, and bless you by night and by day. Your one harsh deed is forgotten, your years of love remembered. Catherine laid her hand on her bosom and sank back in her chair with one long sob. Then comes this, madam, it doth speak for itself, a long farewell. I go on, bless you, girl, you give me sorry comfort, dilt is comfort. To my brothers Cornelis and Cybrandt, be content, you will see me no more. What does that mean? Ah! To my sister Kate, little angel of my father's house, be kind to her. Ah! That is Margaret Brandt, my dear, his sweet aunt, poor soul, I've not been kind to her, my dear, forgive me, Gerard. For poor Gerard's sake, since grief to her is death to me, ah! And nature, resenting the poor girl's struggle for a natural composure, suddenly gave way, and she sank from her chair and lay insensible with the letter in her hand and her head on Catherine's knees. End of Chapter 43, Recording by Tom Denham, Chapter 44, Of the Cloister and the Harth, by Charles Reid. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Tom Denham. Experienced women are not frightened when a woman faints, or do they hastily attribute it to anything but physical causes, which they have often seen produce it. Catherine bustled about, laid the girl down with her head on the floor quite flat, opened the window, and unleashed her dress as she lay. Not till she had done all this did she step to the door and say rather loudly, Come here, if you please. Margaret Van Eyck and Reicht came and found Margaret lying quite flat, and Catherine beating her hands. Oh! my poor girl! What have you done to her? Me! cried Catherine angrily. What has happened then? Nothing, madam. Nothing more than is natural in her situation. Margaret Van Eyck colored with ire. You do well to speak so coolly, said she. You that are the cause of her situation. That I am not, said Catherine bluntly, nor any woman born. What! Was it not you and your husband that kept them apart, and now he has gone to Italy all alone? Situation, indeed, you have broken her heart amongst you. Why, madam, who is it, then, in heaven's name, to hear you one would think this was my Gerard's lass? But that can't be. This fur never cost less than five crowns the ale, besides, this young, gentle woman is a wife, or ought to be. Of course she ought, and who is the cause she is none? Who came before them at the very altar? God forgive them whoever it was, said Catherine gravely. Me it was not, nor my man. Well, said the other, a little softened. Now you have seen her, perhaps you will not be quite so bitter against her, madam. She is coming too, thank heaven. Me, bitter against her, said Catherine, no, that is all over. Poor soul! Trouble behind her, and trouble her for her, and to think of my setting her of all living women to read Gerard's letter to me. Aye, and that was what made her go off, I'll be sworn. She is coming too. What, sweet odd, be not afraid, none are here but friends. They seated her in an easy chair. As the colour was creeping back to her face and lips, Catherine drew Margaret Van Eyck aside. Is she staying with you, if you please? No, madam. I wouldn't let her go back to Sevenburgan tonight, then. That is, as she pleases. She still refuses to bide the night. Aye, but you are older than she is. You can make her. There, she is beginning to notice. Catherine then put her mouth to Margaret Van Eyck's ear for half a moment. It did not seem time enough to whisper a word far lesser sentence. But on some topics, females can flash communication to female, like lightning or thought itself. The old lady started and whispered back, It's false! It is a columnary! It is monstrous! Look at her face! It is blasphemy to accuse such a face! Tutt, tutt, tutt, said the other. You might as well say, this is not my hand. I ought to know, and I tell ye, it is so. Then, much to Margaret Van Eyck's surprise, she went up to the girl and, taking her round the neck, kissed her warmly. I suffered for Gerard, and you shed your blood for him, I do here. His own words show me that I have been to blame the very words you have read to me. Aye, Gerard, my child, I have held aloof from her. But I'll make it up to her once I begin. You are my daughter from this hour. Another warm embrace sealed this hasty compact, and the woman of impulse was gone. Margaret lay back in her chair, and a feeble smile stole over her face. Gerard's mother had kissed her and called her daughter, but the next moment she saw her old friend looking at her with a vexed air. I wonder, you let that woman kiss you? His mother murmured Margaret, half reproachfully, Mother or no mother, you would not let her touch you if you knew what she whispered in my ear about you. About me, said Margaret faintly, I about you whom she never saw till tonight. The old lady was proceeding with some hesitation and choice of language to make Margaret share her indignation when an unlooked-for interruption closed her lips. The young woman slid from her chair to her knees, and began to pray piteously to her for pardon. From the words and the manner of her penitence a bystander would have gathered. She had inflicted some cruel wrong, some intolerable insult upon her venerable friend.