 Chapter 45 of The Cloyster and the Hearth by Charles Reed This little party at the Hosea's house sat at table discussing the recent event. When their mother returned and casting a piercing glance all round the little circle, laid the letter flat on the table. She repeated every word of it by memory following the lines with her finger to cheat herself and bearers into the notion that she could read the words or nearly. Then suddenly lifting her head she cast another keen look on Cornelis and Cybrant. Their eyes fell. On this the storm that had long been brewing burst on their heads. Catherine seemed to swell like an angry hen ruffling her feathers, and out of her mouth came a rawn and soan of wisdom and twaddle of great and mean invective, such as no male that ever was born could utter in one current, and not many women. The following is a fair though a small sample of her words. Only they were uttered all in one breath. I have long had my doubts that you blew the flame between Gerard and your father and set that old rogue Giesbrecht on, and now here are Gerard's own written words to prove it. You have driven your own flesh and blood into a far land and robbed the mother that bore you of her darling, the pride of her eye, the joy of her heart. But you are all of her peace from end to end. When you were all boys together my others were a comfort, but you were a curse, mischievous and sly, and took a woman half a day to keep your clothes all. For why? Work wears cloth, but play cuts it. With the beard comes prudence, but none came to you, still the last to go to bed and the last to leave it, and why? Because honesty goes to bed early and industry rises bit-times. Where there are two liar-beds in a house there are a pair of nader-wheels. Often I've sat and looked at your ways and wondered where you came from. You don't take after your father and you are no more like me than a waspish to an ant. Sure you were changed in the cradle or the cuckoo dropped you on my floor. For you have not our hands nor our hearts of all my blood, none but you ever jeered them that God afflicted. But often when my back was turned I've heard you mock at Giles because he is not as big as some, and at my lily Kate because she is not so strong as a flander's mare. After that rob a church and you will. For you can be no worse in his eyes that made both Kate and Giles and in mine that suffered for them. Poor darlings, as I did for you, you paltry, unfeeling, treasonable curs. No, I will not hush my daughter. They have filled the cup too full. It takes a deal to turn a mother's heart against the sons she has nursed upon her knees. And many is the time I have winked and wouldn't see too much and bitten my tongue lest their father should know them as I do. He would have put them to the door that moment. But now they have filled the cup too full. And where got she all this money? For this last month you have been rolling in it. You never wrought for it? I wish I may never hear from other mouths how you got it. It is since that night you were out so late, and your head came back so swelled, Cornelis. Sloth and greed are ill-mated, my masters, lovers of money must sweat or steal. Well, if you robbed any poor soul of it, it was some woman I'll go bail, for a man would drive you with his naked hand. No matter, it is good for one thing. It has shown me how you will guide our gear if ever it comes to be your own. I have watched you, my lads, this while. You have spent a groat today between you, and I spent scarce a groat a week, and keep you all good and bad. No, I give up waiting for the shoes that will maybe walk behind your coffin, for this shop and this house will never be your own. Gerard is our heir, poor Gerard, whom you have banished and done your best to kill. After that never call me mother again. But you have made him tenfold dearer to me, my poor lost boy. I shall soon see him again, shall hold him in my arms, and set him on my knees. I, you may stare, you are too crafty, and yet not crafty enough. You cut the stalk away, but you left the seed, the seed that shall outgrow you and outlive you. Margaret Brant is quick, and it is Gerard's, and what is Gerard's is mine, and I have prayed the saints it may be a boy, and it will, it must. Kate, when I found it was so, my bowels yearned over her child unborn as if it had been my own. He is our heir, he will outlive us, you will not, for a bad heart in a carcass is like the worm in the nut, soon brings the body to dust. So Kate, take down Gerard's bibbent tucker that are in the drawer you vote of, and one of these days we will carry them to Sevenburgen. We will borrow Peter Boyskine's cart, and go comfort Gerard's wife under her burden. She is his wife. Who is Gisbrecht van Svitten? Can he come between a couple and the altar, and sonder those that God and the priest make one? She is my daughter, and I am as proud of her as I am of you Kate, almost. And as for you, keep out of my way awhile, for you are like the black dog in my eyes. Cornelis and Cybrant took the hint, and slunk out, aching with remorse, and impenitence, and hate. They avoided her eye as much as ever they could, and for many days she never spoke a word good, bad, or indifferent to either of them. Libravarat animum sum, End of Chapter 45, Recording by Tom Denham Chapter 46 of The Cloister and the Hearth by Charles Reed This Libravox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Tom Denham. Catherine was a good housewife, who seldom left home for a day, and then one thing or another always went amiss. She was keenly conscious of this, and watching for a slack tide in things domestic, put off her visit to Sefenbergen from day to day, and one afternoon, that it really could have been managed, Peter Boyskine's mule was out of the way. At last one day Eli asked her before all the family whether it was true she had thought of visiting Margaret Brant. I, my man, then I do forbid you. Oh, do you? I do. Then there is no more to be said, I suppose, said she, colouring. Not a word, replied Eli sternly. When she was alone with her daughter, she was very severe, not upon Eli, but upon herself. Make me rather go thither like a cat at a robin. But this was me all over, I am like a silly hen that can lay no egg without cackling and convening all the house to rob her on. Next time you and I are after all the least amiss, let's do it in Heaven's name then and there, and not take time to think about it, far less talk. So then, if they take us to task we can say, Alak we knew not, we thought no ill, now who'd ever, and so forth. For two pins I'd go thither in all their teeth. Defiance so wild and picturesque, stuck at Kate, nay, mother, with patience, father will come round. And so will Mikkelmus, but when? But I was so bent on you seeing the girl. Then we could have put our heads together about her. Say what they will, there is no judging body or beast but by the eye. And were I to have fifty more sons, I'd nairthwart one of them's fancy, till such time as I had clapped my eyes upon her and seen quicksands. There you, I should have thought of that before condemning Gerard his fancy. But there life is a school, and the lesson nair done. We put down one fault and take up tither, and so go blundering here and blundering there till we blunder into our graves, and there's an end of us. Mother, said Kate timidly, well, what is it coming now? No good news, though, by the look of you. What on earth can make the poor wretch so scared? An avowal she hath to make, faltered Kate faintly. Now, there is an oval word for you, said Catherine proudly. Our Gerard taught thee that, I'll go bale. Come then, out with thy avowal. Well then, soothe to say, I have seen her. And spoken with her to boot, and never told me. After this, marvels are dirt. Mother, you were so hot against her. I waited till I could tell you whether I'd angering you worse. I, said Catherine, half sadly, half bitterly, like mother, like daughter, cowardice, it is our bane. The others I wiles buffet, or how would the house fare? But did you, Kate, ever have harsh word, or look from your poor mother, that you? Nay, I will not have you cry, girl, ten to one you had your reason. So rise up, brave heart, and tell me all. Better late than there. And first and foremost, when ever, and how ever, when due to Sevenburgen, were your poor crutches, and I not know. I never was there in my life, and, mammy dear, to say that I ne'er wish to see her, that I will not, but I ne'er went nor sought to see her. There now, said Catherine disputatively, said I not, it was all unlike my girl to seek her unbeknown to me. Come now, for I'm all a gog. Then, thus twas, it came to my ears, no matter how, and pretty good mother on my knees, ne'er asked me how, that Gerard was a prisoner in the Stathouse Tower. Ah! By father's behest, as twas pretended. Catherine uttered a sigh, that was almost a moan. Bracker than I thought, she muttered faintly. Giles and I went out at night, to bid him be of good cheer, and there, at the tower foot, was a brave lass, quite strange to me, I vow, on the same errand. Looky there now, Kate. At first we did properly frighten one another, through the place, his bad name, and our poor heads being so full of divils, and we whitened a bit in moonshine. But next, co-eye, you are Margaret, and you are Kate, co-she, think on, did one ever, twas Gerard, he will have been talking backwards and forads of thee to her, and her to thee. In return for this, Kate bestowed on Catherine one of the prettiest presents in nature, the composite kiss, i.e., she imprinted on her cheek a single kiss, which said, one, quite correct, two, good, clever mother, for guessing so right and quick, three, how sweet for us twain to be of one mind again after never having been otherwise, four, etc. Now then, speak thy mind, child, Gerard is not here. Alas! What am I saying? Would to heaven he were! Well then, mother, she is comely, and wrongs her picture, but little. Ay, dear, hark to young folk, I am for good acts, not good looks. Love she my boy, as he did ought to be loved. Seven Bergen is farther from the Stathouse than we are, said Kate thoughtfully, yet she was there for me. Catherine nodded intelligence. Nay, more! She had got him out ere I came, ay, down from the captive's tower. Catherine shook her head incredulously. The highest tower for miles it is not feasible. Tissooth, though, she and an old man she brought, found means and wit to send him up a rope. Wet was dangling from his prison, and our giles went up it. When first I saw it hung, I said, this is glamour. But when the frank glass's arms came round me, and her bosom did beat on mine, and her cheeks wet, then said I, tis not glamour, tis love. For she is not like me, but lusty and able, and dear heart, when I, poor frail creature, do feel sometimes, as I could move the world for them I love. I love you, mother, and she loves Gerard. God bless her, Fort, God bless her! But, but what, Lamb, her love, is it for very certain honest? Tis most strange, but that very thing which hath warmed your heart, hath somewhat cooled mine towards her poor soul. She is no wife, you know, mother, when all is done. Huh! They have stood at the altar together. Aye! But they went as they came, maid and bachelor. The parson saith he so, Nay, for that I know not. Then I'll take no man's word but his in such a tangled scheme. There's some reflection, she added. Nevertheless, art right, girl, I'll go to Sevenpergen alone, a wife I am but not a slave. We are all in the dark here, and she holds the clue. I must question her, and no one by, least of all you. I'll not take any lily to a house we are spot, no, not to a palace of gold and silver. The more Catherine pondered this conversation, the more she felt drawn towards Margaret, and moreover she was all agog, with curiosity, a potent passion with us all, and nearly omnipotent with those who, like Catherine, do not slake it with reading. At last, one fine day after dinner, she whispered to Kate, Keep the house from going to pieces, and you can. And donned her best kirtle and hood, and her scarlet clocked hoes, and her new shoes, and trudged briskly off to Sevenpergen, troubling no man's mule. When she got there, she inquired where Margaret Brandt lived. The first person she asked shook his head and said, The name is strange to me. She went a little farther and asked a girl of about fifteen who was standing at a door. Father, said the girl speaking into the house, Here is another after that magician's daughter. The man came out and told Catherine Peter Brandt's cottage was just outside the town on the east side. You may see the chimney hence, and he pointed it out to her. But you will not find them there, neither father nor daughter. They have left the town this week, bless you. Say not so, good man, and me walking all the way from Tergoo. From Tergoo? Then you must have met the soldier. What soldier? I! I did meet a soldier. Well then, young soldier was here, seeking that self-same Margaret. I! And weren't her mad with us because she was gone? What in the girl? His long beard and her cheek are no strangers, I want. Say no more than you know, said Catherine Sharply. You are young to take to slandering your elders. Stay! Tell me more about this soldier, good man. Nay! I know no more than that he came hither seeking Margaret Brandt. And I told him she and her father had made a moonlight-flit on this day, said I! And that some thought the devil had flown away with them being magicians. And, says he, the devil fly away with thee for thy ill news, that was my thanks. But I doubt is a lie, said he, and you think so, said I, go and see. I will, said he, and burst out where hantle the gibberish my wife thinks twist curses and hide him to the cottage. Everybody backer comes and sings to the tune. You were right, and I was wrong, says he, and shoves a silver coin in my hand. Show it the wife, some of you. Then she'll believe me. I have been called a liar once to-day. It needs not, said Catherine, inspecting the coin all the same. And he seemed quiet and sad like, didn't he now, wench? That I did, said the young woman warmly, and, dame, he was just as pretty a man as ever I clapped eyes on, cheeks like a rose and shining beard, and eyes in his head like sloes. I saw he was well bearded, said Catherine, but for the rest at my age I scan them not as when I was young and foolish. But he seemed right civil, doffed as bonnet to me as I had been a queen, and I did drop him my best reverence for manners beget manners. But little I wist he had been her lighter love, and most likely the—who bakes for this town? The man, not being acquainted with her, opened his eyes at this transition, swift and smooth. Well dame, there be two, John Bush and Eric Donaldson, they both bide in this street. Then God be with you good people, said she, and proceeded. But her sprightly foot came flat on the ground now, and no longer struck it with little jerks and cocking eel. She asked the bakers whether Peter Brandt had gone away in their debt. Bush said they were not customers. Donaldson said, not a stiver! His daughter had come round and paid him the very night they went, didn't believe they owed a copper in the town. So Catherine got all the information of that kind she wanted, with very little trouble. Can you tell me what sort this Margaret was? said she, as she turned to go. Well, somewhat too reserved for my taste, I like a chatty customer, when I'm not too busy. But she bore a high character for being a good daughter. Tis no small praise, a well-looking lass, I am told. Why, whence come you, wife? From Tergo. Oh, I—well, you shall judge. The lads klept her the beauty of Sevenburgen. The lassas did scout it merrily, and terribly pulled her to pieces, and found so many faults no two could agree where the fault lay. That is enough, said Catherine. I see the bakers are no fools in Sevenburgen, and the young women no shallower than in other boroughs. She bought a mansion of bread, partly out of sympathy and justice. She kept a shop, partly to show her household how much better bread she gave them daily, and returned to Tergo, dejected. Kate met her outside the town with beaming eyes. Well, Kate lass, it is a happy thing I went. I am heartbroken. Gerard has been so abused. The child is none of our own, nor the mother from this hour. Alas, mother, I fathom not your meaning. Ask me no more, girl, but never mention her name to me again. That is all. Kate acquiesced with a humble sigh, and they went home together. They found a soldier seated tranquilly by their fire. The moment they entered the door, he rose and saluted them civilly. They stood and looked at him, Kate with some little surprise, with Catherine with a great deal, and with rising indignation. What makes you here? was Catherine's greeting. I came to seek after Margaret. Well, we know no such person. Say not so, Dame. Sure you know her by name, Margaret Brandt. We have heard of her for that matter, to our cost. Come, Dame, pretty tell me at least where she bides. I know not where she bides, and care not. Denis felt sure this was a deliberate untruth. He bit his lip. Well, I looked to find myself in an enemy's country at this turgu, but maybe if you knew all, you would not be Sardua. I do know all, replied Catherine bitterly. This morn I knew not. Then suddenly setting her arms a Kimbo, she told him with a raised voice and flashing eyes, she wondered at his cheek, sitting down by that hearth of all hearths in the world. May Satan fly away with your hearth to the lake of fire and brimstone, shouted Denis, who could speak Flemish fluently. Your own servant bade me sit there till you came, else I'd ne'er troubled your hearth. My mallison on it and on the churlish roof-tree that greets an unoffending stranger this way. And he strode scowling to the door. Oh, oh! ejaculated Catherine frightened and also a little conscience stricken, and the verago sat suddenly down and burst into tears. Her daughter followed suit quietly, but without loss of time. A shrewd writer, now unhappily lost to us, has somewhere the following dialogue. She, I feel all a woman's weakness. He, then you, are invincible. Denis, by anticipation, confirmed that valuable statement. He stood at the door looking ruefully at the havoc his thunderbolt of eloquence had made. Nay, wife, said he, weep not, neither for a soldier's hasty word. I mean not all, I said. Why, your house is your own, and what right in it have I? There, now, I'll go. What is to do? said a grave manly voice. It was Eli. He had come in from the shop. Here is a ruffian being a scolding of your womenfolk, and making them cry, explained Denis. Little Kate, what is it? For ruffians do not used to call themselves ruffians, said Eli, the sensible. Eh, she could explain. Hold your tongue, girl, said Catherine. Muriel bad him sit down, and I knew not that, and whited on him. And he was going and leaving his malice and honour's root and branch. I was never so becursed in all my days. Oh, oh, oh! You were both somewhat to blame, both you and he, said Eli calmly. However, what the servant says the master should still stand to. We keep not open house, but yet we are not poor enough to grudge a seat at our hearth in a cold day to a wayfarer with an honest face, and, as I think, a wounded man. So end all malice and sit ye down. Wounded cried mother and daughter in a breath. Think ye, a soldier slings his arm for sport. Nay, tis but an arrow, said Denis cheerfully. But an arrow, said Kate with concentrated horror. Where were our eyes, mother? Nay, in good sooth, a trifle. Which, however, I will pray, madame, to accept as an excuse for my vivacity. Tis these little foolish trifling wounds that fret a man worthy, sir. Why, look here now, sweeter temper than our Geroge never breathed. Yet, when the bear did but strike a piece no bigger than a crown out of his calf, he turned so hot and choleric. He had said he was no son of yours, but got by the good night Sir John Pepper on his wife's day mustard. Who is this? A dwarf? Your servant, Master Giles? Your servant, soldier, roared the newcomer. Denis started. He had not counted on exchange in greetings with a petard. Denis's words had surprised his hosts, but hardly more than their deportment now did him. They all three came creeping up to where he sat and looked down into him with their lips parted, as if he had been some strange phenomenon. But growing agitation succeeded to amazement. Now hush, said Eli, let none speak but I. Young man, said he solemnly, in God's name who are you that know us though we know not you, and that shake our hearts speaking to us of the absent, our poor rebellious son whom heaven forgave and bless. But Master, said Denis, luring his voice, hath he not writ to you? hath he not told you of me, Denis of Burgundy? He hath writ but three lines, and name not Denis of Burgundy nor any stranger. Aye, I mind the long letter was to his sweet aunt, this Margaret, and she has decamped, plague taker, and how am I to find her, heaven knows? What, she is not your sweet aunt then? Who dame and please you? Why, Margaret Brandt, how can my comrade sweet aunt be mine? I know her not from Noah's niece, how should I? I never saw her. Whist with this idle chat, Kate, said Eli impatiently, and let the young man answer me. How came you to know, Gerard, our son? Prithee now, think on a parent's cares, and answer me straightforward like a soldier as thou art. And, Charles, I was paid off at flushing, and started for Burgundy. On the German frontier I laid at the same inn with Gerard. I fancied him, I said, be my comrade. He was loath at first, consented presently. Many a weary league we trodged together. Never were truer comrades. Never will be while earth shall last. First I left my root a bit to be with him, then he his to be with me. We talked of seven Bergen and Tergu a thousand times, and of all in this house. We had our troubles on the road, but battling them together made them light. I saved his life from a bear, he mine in the Rhine, for he swims like a duck and I like a hodder bricks, and one another's lives at an inn in Burgundy, where we two held a room for a good hour against seven cut-throats. It crippled one and slew two, and your son did his devoir like a man, and met the stoutest champion I ever counted and spitted him like a sucking pig, else I had not been here. But just when all was fair, and I was to see him safe aboard ship for Rome, if not to Rome itself, met us that son of a the Lord Anthony of Burgundy and his men making for Flanders, then in insurrection, tore us by force apart, took me where I got some broad pieces in hand, and a broad arrow in my shoulder, and left my poor Gerard lonesome. At that sad parting, soldier though I be, these eyes did rain salt-scalding tears, and so did his poor soul. His last word to me was, go comfort Margaret. So here I be, mine to him was, think no more of Rome, make for Rhine and downstream home. Now say, for you know best, did I advise him well or ill? Soldier, take my hand, said Eli, God bless thee, God bless thee, and his lip quivered. It was all his reply, but more eloquent than many words. Catherine did not answer at all, but she darted from the room and barred Muriel bring the best that was in the house, and returned with wood in both arms and heaped the fire, and took out a snow-white cloth from the press, and was going in a great hurry to lay it for Gerard's friend, when suddenly she sat down and all the power ebbed rapidly out of her body. Father, cried Kate, whose eye was quick as her affection. Denis started up, but Eli waved him back and flung a little water sharply in his wife's face. This did her instant good. She gasped, So sudden, my poor boy! Eli whispered to me, Take no notice, she thinks of him, night and day. They pretended not to observe her, and she shook it off, and hustled and laid the cloth with her own hands. But as she smoothed it, her hands trembled in a tear or two stole down her cheeks. They could not make enough of Denis. They stuffed him and crammed him, and then gathered round him and kept filling his glass in turn, while by that genial blaze of fire and ruby wine and eager eyes, he told all that I have related, and a vast number of minor details, which an artist, however minute, omits. But how different the effect on my readers and on this small circle? To them the interest was already made before the first word came from his lips. It was all about Gerard, and he who sat there telling it them was warm from Gerard and an actor with him in all these scenes. The flesh and blood around that fire quivered for their severed member, hearing its struggles and perils. I shall ask my readers to recall to memory all they can of Gerard's journey with Denis, and in their mind's eye to see those very matters told by his comrades to an exile's father, all stoic outside or father within, and to two poor women, an exile's mother and a sister, who were all love and pity and tender anxiety both outside and in. Now would you mind closing this book for a minute and making an effort to realize all this? It will save us so much repetition. Then you will not be surprised when I tell you that after a while Giles came softly and curled himself up before the fire, and lay gazing at the speaker with a reverence, almost canine, and that when the rough soldier had unconsciously but thoroughly betrayed his better qualities, and above all his rare affection for Gerard, Kate, though timorous as a bird, stole her little hand into the warrior's huge brown palm, where it lay an instant like a teaspoon full of cream spilt on a platter, then nipped the ball of his thumb and served for a cardiometer. In other words, fate is just even to rival storytellers and balancers' matters. Denis had to pay a tax to his audience, which I have not. Whenever Gerard was in too much danger, the female faces became so white and their poor little throats gurgled so he was obliged in common humanity to spoil his recital. Suspense is the soul of narrative and thus dealt rough and tender of burgundy with his best suspensers. Now, Dame, take not on till you hear the end. Mamsel, let not your cheek blanch so. Courage! It looks ugly, but you shall hear now how we won through. Had he miscarried and eye at hand, would I be alive? And meantime, Kate's little cardiometer or heart-measurer, graduated emotion and pinched by scale. At its best, it was by no means a high-pressure engine, but all is relative. Denis soon learned the tender gamut and went to water the suspense and extract the thrill as far as possible. On one occasion only, he cannily indemnified his narrative for this drawback. Falling personally into the Rhine and sinking he got pinched. He, Denis, to his surprise and satisfaction, oh-ho, thought he, and on the principle of the anatomists, experimentum in corpore villi, kept himself a quarter of an hour under water, under pressure all the time. And even when Gerard had got hold of him, he was loath to leave the river. So less conscientious than I was, swam with Gerard to the East Bank first and was about to land, but detected the officers and their intent, chaffed them a little space, treading water then turned and swam wearily all across, and at last was obliged to get out for very shame. Or else acknowledged himself a pike, so permitted himself to land, exhausted, and the pressure relaxed. It was eleven o'clock, an unheard of hour, but they took no note of time this night, and Denis had still so much to tell them when the door was opened quietly and in stole Cornelis and Cybrandt looking hangdog. They had this night been drinking the very last drop of their mysterious funds. Catherine feared her husband would rebuke them before Denis, but he only looked sadly at them and motioned them to sit down quietly. Denis it was who seemed discomposed. He knitted his brows and eyed them thoughtfully and rather gloomily. Then turned to Catherine, what say you, Dame, the rest to-morrow, for I am somewhat weary and it waxes late, so be it, said Eli. But when Denis rose to go to his inn, he was instantly stopped by Catherine, and think you to lie from this house? Gerard's room has been got ready for you hours ago, the sheets I not say much for, seeing I spun the flax and wove the web, then would I lie in them blindfold, was the gallant reply. Ah, Dame, our poor Gerard was the one for fine linen, he could hardly forgive the honest Germans their coarse flax, and when ere my traitors of countrymen did amiss, I would excuse them saying, well, well, bon toiles sont en bourgogne. That means there be good linen cloths in burgundy, but indeed he peat all for bywords and cleanliness. Oh, Eli, Eli, doth not our son come back to us in each word? I bust me, my poor Kate, you and I know all that passeth in each other's heart this night. None other can but God. End of chapter 46. Recording by Tom Denham. Chapter 47 of The Closer and the Half by Charles Reid. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Tom Denham. Denis took an opportunity next day, and told mother and daughter the rest, excusing himself characteristically for not letting Cornelis and Cybrandt hear of it. It is not for me to blacken them, they come of a good stock, but Gerard looks on them as no friends of his in this matter, and I'm Gerard's comrade, and it is a rule with us soldiers not to tell the enemy ought, but lies. Catherine sighed, but made no answer. The adventures he related cost them a tumult of agitation and grief, and saw their wept at the parting of the friends, which even now Denis could not tell without faltering. But at last all merged in the joyful hope and expectation of Gerard's speedy return. In this, Denis confidently shared, but reminded them that was no reason why he should neglect his friends' wishes and last words. In fact, should Gerard return next week, and no Margaret's to be found, what sort of figure should he cut? Catherine had never felt so kindly towards the truant Margaret as now, and she was fully as anxious to find her and be kind to her before Gerard's return, as Denis was, but she could not agree with him that anything was to be gained by leaving this neighborhood to search for her. She must have told somebody whether she was going. It is not as though they were dishonest folk flying the country. They owe not a steiver in Sevenbergen, and, dear heart, Denis, you can't hunt all Holland for her. Can I not? said Denis grimly. That we shall see. He added, after some reflection, that they must divide their forces. She stay here with eyes and ears wide open, and he ransack every town in Holland for her, if need be. But she will not be many leagues from here. They be three, three flying not so fast, nor far as one. That is sense, said Catherine. But she insisted on his going first to the demoiselle Van Eyck. She and our Margaret were bosom friends. She knows where the girl is gone, if she will, but tell us. Denis was forgoing to her in that instant, so Catherine, in a turn of the hand, made herself one shade neater and took him with her. She was received graciously by the old lady sitting in a richly furnished room and opened her business. The tapestry dropped out of Margaret Van Eyck's hands. Gone? gone from Sevenbergen and not told me the thankless girl. This turn greatly surprised the visitors. What, you know not? When was she here last? Maybe ten days ago. I had tain out my brushes after so many years to paint her portrait. I did not do it, though, for reasons. Catherine remarked, it was a most strange thing. She should go away, bag and baggage like this, without your leave or by your leave, why or wherefore. Was ever ought so untoward? Just when all our hearts are warm to her, and here is Gerard's mate come from the ends of the earth with comfort for her from Gerard, and can't find her, and Gerard himself expected. What to do, I know not. But sure she is not parted like this without a reason. Can ye not give us the clue, my good demoiselle, pretty now? I have it not to give, said the elder lady, rather peevishly. Then I can, said Right Highness, showing herself in the doorway with colour somewhat heightened. So you have been harkening all the time, eh? What are my ears for, Mistress? True. Well, throw us the light of thy wisdom on this dark matter. There is no darkness that I see, said Right, and the clue, why, and ye caught a two-ply twine, and the ends on in this roomee now, ye'll not be far out. Oh, Mistress, I wonder at you sitting there pretending. Marry, come up! And the Mistress's cheek was now nearly as red as the servants. So twas I drove the foolish girl away? Ye did ye share, Mistress? What sort of greeting gave you her last time she came? Think you she could, Mistress, notice it, and she all friendless? And you said, I have altered my mind about painting of you, says you, a turning up your nose at her? I did not turn up my nose. It is not shaped like yours for looking heavenward. Oh, all our nosen can follow our hearts bent, for that matter. Poor soul, she did come into the kitchen to me. I am not to be painted now, said she, and the tears in her eyes. She said no more, but I knew well what she did mean. I had seen ye. Well, said Margaret Van Eyck, I do confess so much, and I make you the judge, madame. Know that these young girls can do nothing of their own heads, but are most apt at mimicking ought their sweethearts do. Now your Gerard is reasonably handy at many things, and among the best at the illuminator's craft. And Margaret, she is his pupil, and a patient one. What marvel, having a woman's eye for colour, and eager lover to ape! Tis a trick I despise at heart, for by it the great art of colour, which should be royal, aspiring and free, becomes a poor slave to the petty crafts of writing and printing, and is fettered, imprisoned, and made little body and soul to match the littleness of books, and go to church in a rich fool's pocket. Nonetheless, affection rules us all, and when the poor wench would bring me her thorn-leaves, and lilies, and ivy, and dewberries, and ladybirds, and butterfly-grubs, and all the scum of nature stuck fast in gold leaf, like wasps in a honey-pot, and with all her diurnal book, showing she had poured an hundred, or an hundred-and-fifty, or two-hundred hours over each singular page. Sir Tis, I was wroth at an immortal soul, and many hours of labour, and much manual skill, should be flung away on nature's trash, leaves, insects, grubs, and on barren letters. But having bowels, I did perforce restrain, and as it were, dam my better feelings, and looked kindly at the work to see how it might be bettered. And I said, Sith heaven for our sins hath doomed us to spend time and soul and colour on great letters and little beetles, omitting such small fry as saints and heroes, their acts and passions. Why not present the scum naturally? I told her the grapes I saw walking abroad did hanger the air, not stick in a wall. And even these insects, koai, and nature, her slime in general, pass not their noxious lives wedged miserably in metal prisons, like flies in honey-pots and glue-pots, but do crawl or hover at large in festing air. Ah, my dear friend, says she, I see now whither you drive, but this ground is gold, whereon we may not shade. Who said so, koai? All teachers of this craft, says she, and to make an end of me at once, I throw Gerard himself. That for Gerard himself, koai, and all the gang, gimme a brush. Then chose I to shade her fruit and reptiles, a false colour in nature, but true relatively to that monstrous ground of glaring gold, and in five minutes out came a bunch of raspberries, stork and all, and almost flew in your mouth. Likewise a butterfly grub, she had so truly presented as might turn the stoutest stomach. My lady, she flings her arms round my neck, and says she, oh, oh, did she now? The little love, observed Denis, succeeding at last in wedging in a word. Margaret Van Eyck stared at him, and then smiled. She went on to tell them how from step to step she had been led on, to promise to resume the art she had laid aside with a sigh when her brothers died, and to paint the Madonna once more, with Margaret for model. Incidentally, she even revealed how girls are turned into saints. Thy hair is adorable, said I. White is red, quote she. I, quote I, but what a red! How brown! How glossy! Most hair is not worth a straw to us, painters. Thine the artist's very hue. But thy violet eyes, which smack of earth, being now languid for lack of one gerod, now full of fire in hopes of the same gerod, these will I lift to heaven in fixed and holy meditation, and thy nose, which doth already somewhat aspire that way, though not so piously as rites, will I debase a trifle, and somewhat enfeeble thy chin. Enfeeble her chin, alak! What may that mean? You go beyond me, mistress! Tis a resolute chin, not a jot too resolute for this wicked world, but when ye come to a Madonna, no thank you. Well, I never. O resolute chin! Thine the darling, and now comes the rob. When you told me she was, the way she is, it gave me a shock. I dropped my brushes. Was I going to turn a girl that couldn't keep her lover at a distance into the Virgin Mary at my time of life? I love the poor niny still, but I adore our blessed lady. Say you, a painter must not be peevish in such matters. Well, most painters are men, and men are fine fellows. They can do ought. Their saints and virgins are neither more or less than the lemons saving your presence. But know that for this very reason half their craft is lost on me, which find beneath their angels, white wings, the very trollops I have seen flaunting it on the streets, be jewelled like pain-imped idols, and put on like queens in a pack of cards. And I am not a fine fellow, but only a woman, and my painting is but one-half craft, and to the half devotion. So now you may read me. Twas foolish, maybe, but I could not help it. Yet am I sorry. And the old lady ended despondently, a discourse which she had commenced in a mighty defiant tone. Well, you know, Dame, observed Catherine, you must think it would go to the poor girl's heart, and she so fond of you. Margaret van Eyck only sighed. The Frisian girl, after biting her lips impatiently a little while, turned upon Catherine. Why, Dame, think you twas for that alone, Margaret and Peter, hath left Sevenburgan? Nay! For what else, then? What else? Because Gerard's people slight her so cruel, who would bide among hard-hearted folk that had driven her lad titally, and now he is gone, relent not but face it out? And ne'er come an eye her that is left. Right! I was going. Oh, I, going, and going, and going, ye should have said less or else done more. But with your words you did uplift her heart, and let it down with your deeds. They have never been, said the poor thing to me, with such a sigh. I hear as one can feel for her, for I too am far from my friends, and often, when I first came to Holland, I did used to take a hearty cry all to myself. But ten times lever would I be right, heinous, with naught but the leagues between me and all my kith, than be as she is, in the midst of them that ought to warm to her, and yet to fare as lonesome as I? Alach, right! I did go but yestrene, and had gone before, but one plaguey thing or tother did still come and hinder me. Mistress did ought hinder ye to eat your dinner any one of those days? I throw not. And had your heart been as good towards your own flesh and blood, as towards your flesh as meat, naught had prevailed to keep you from her that sat lonely, or watching the road for you and comfort, were your child's child abeating neath her bosom. Here this rude young woman was interrupted by an incident not uncommon in a domestic's bright existence. The van Eyck had been nettle'd by the attack on her, but with due tact had gone into ambush. She now sprang out of it. Since you disrespect my guests, seek another place, with all my heart, said Reich stoutly, Nay Mistress put in the good-natured Catherine. True folk will still speak out. Her tongue is a stinger. Here the water came into the speaker's eyes by way of confirmation, but better she said it than thought it. So now twalt rankle in her, and part with her for me. That shall she not. Be shrew the wench, she waltz she is a good servant and takes advantage. We poor wretches which keep house must still pay him tax for value. I had a good servant once when I was a young woman. Hey, dear, how she did grind me down into the dust. In the end, by heaven's mercy, she married the baker, and I was my own woman again. So said I, no more good servants shall come hither a hectaring of me. I just get a fool and learn her, and whenever she knoweth her right hand from her left, she soarseth me. Then out I bundle her neck and crop, and take another dunce in her place. Dear heart, it is weary some teaching a string of fools by wands, but there I am mistruth. Here she forgot that she was defending right, and turning rather spitefully upon her added, and you be mistruth here, I trough. No more than that stool, said the van Eyck loftily. She is neither mistruth nor servant, but gone. She has dismissed the house, and there's an end of her. What, did he not hear me turn the saucy baggage off? Aye, aye, we all heard ye, said Wright, with vast indifference. Then hear me, said Denis solemnly. They all went round like things on wheels, and fastened their eyes on him. Aye, let us hear what the man says, urged the hostess. Men are fine fellows with their great horse voices. Mistruth's right, said Denis, with great dignity and ceremony, indeed so great, as to verge on the absurd, you are turned off. If on a slight acquaintance I might advise, I'd say, since you were a servant no more, be a mistruth, a queen. Easier said than done, replied Wright bluntly, not a jot. You see here one who is a man, though but half an arbalestria, owing to that devilish Englishman's arrow, in whose carcass I have, however, left a like token, which is a comfort. I have twenty gold pieces, he showed them, and a stout arm. In another week or so, I shall have twain. Marrage is not a habit of mine, but I capitulate to so many virtues. You are beautiful, good-hearted, and outspoken, and, above all, you take the part of my she, comrade. Be, then, an arbalestria! And what the dickens is that? In quite right, I mean, be the wife, mistruth, and queen, of Denis of Burgundy here present. A dead silence fell on all. It did not last long, though, and was followed by a burst of unreasonable indignation. Catherine, well, did you ever? Margaret, never in all my born days. Catherine, before our very faces. Margaret, of all the absurdity and insolence of this ridiculous sex! Then Denis observed somewhat dryly that the female to whom he had addressed himself was mute, and the others on whose eloquence there was no immediate demand were fluent. On this the voices stopped, and the eyes turned pivot-like upon Reichd. She took a sly glance from under her lashes at her military assailant, and said, I mean to take a good look at any man ere I leap into his arms. Denis drew himself up majestically. Then look your fill, and leap away. This proposal led to a new and to most unexpected result. A long white finger was extended by the Van Eyck in a line with the speaker's eye, and an agitated voice but him stand in the name of all the saints. You are beautiful, so cried she. You are inspired with folly. What matters that you are inspired? I must take off your head. And in a moment she was at work with her pencil. Come out, has he, she screamed to Reich, more in front of him, and keep the fooled inspired and beautiful. Oh, why had I not this maniac for my good centurion? They went and brought me a brute with a low forehead and a shapeless beard. Catherine stood and looked with utter amazement at this pantomime, and secretly resolved that her venerable hostess had been a disguised lunatic all this time, and was now busy throwing off the mask. As for Reichd, she was unhappy and cross. She had left her cauldron in a precarious state, and made no scruple to say so, and that duties so grave as hers left her no time to waste her playing the statty and the fool all at one time. Her mistress in reply reminded her that it was possible to be rude and rebellious to one's poor old affectionate desolate mistress without being utterly heartless and savage and a trampler on arts. On this Reich stopped and pouted, and looked like a little basalisk at the inspired model who caused her woe. He retorted with unshaken admiration. The situation was at last dissolved by the artist's wrist becoming cramped from disuse. This was not, however, until she had made a rough but noble sketch. I can work no more at present, said she sorrowfully. Then now, mistress, I may go and mind my pot. Aye, aye, go to your pot, and get into it, do! You will find your soul in it, so then you will all be together. Well, but right, said Catherine, laughing, she turned you off. Boo, boo, boo! said Reich contemptuously. When she wants to get rid of me, let her turn herself off and die. I'm sure she is old enough for it. But take your time, mistress, if you're in no hurry, no more am I. When that day doth come, it will take a man to dry my eyes, and if you should be in the same mind then, soldier, you can say so. And if you are not, white will be all want to Reich tain us. And the plain speaker went away. But her words did not fall to the ground. Neither of her female hearers could disguise from herself that this blunt girl, solitary herself, had probably read Margaret Brandt a right, and that she had gone away from Sevenburgen, broken hearted. Catherine and Denis, pad the Van Eyck Adieu, and that same afternoon Denis set out on a wild goose chase. His plan, like all great things, was simple. He should go to a hundred towns and villages, and ask in each other, after an old physician with a fair daughter, and an old longbow soldier. He should inquire of the burgamasters about all newcomers, and should go to the fountains and watch the women and girls, as they came with their pictures for water. And away he went, and was months and months on the tramp, and could not find her. Happily this chivalrous feat of friendship was in some degree its own reward. Those who sit at home blindfolded by self-conceit, and think camel or man out of the depths of their inner consciousness, alias their ignorance, will tell you that in the intervals of war and danger, peace and tranquil life acquire their true value, and satisfy the heroic mind. But those who look before their bubble or scribble will see, and say that men who risk their lives habitually, thirst for exciting pleasures between the acts of danger, or not for innocent tranquility. To this Denis was no exception. His whole military life had been half Sparta, half Capua, and he was too good a soldier, and too good a Libertine, to have ever mixed either habit with the other. But now for the first time he found himself mixed, at peace and yet on duty, for he took this latter view of his wild goose chase luckily, so all these months he was a demispartan, sober, prudent, vigilant, indomitable, and happy, though constantly disappointed as might have been expected. He flirted gigantically on the road, but wasted no time about it, nor in these wanderings did he tell a single female that marriage was not one of his habits, etc. And so we leave him on the tramp, pilgrim of friendship, as his poor comrade was of love. End of Chapter 47 Recording by Tom Denham Chapter 48 Of The Cloister and the Hearth by Charles Reed This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Tom Denham Catherine was in dismay when she reflected that Gerard must reach home in another month at farthest more likely in a week, and how should she tell him she had not even kept an eye upon his betrothed? Then there was the uncertainty as to the girl's fate, and this uncertainty sometimes took a sickening form. Oh, Kate, she groaned, if she should have gone and made herself away. Mother, she would never be so wicked. Ah, my lass, you know not what hasty fools young lasses be that have no mothers to keep them straight. They will fling themselves into the water for a man that the next man they meet would have cured them of in a week. I have known them to jump in like brass one moment and scream for help in the next. Couldn't know their own minds, you see, even about such a trifle as yarn. And then there's times when their bodies ale like no other living creatures ever I could hear of. And that strings up their feeling so, the patience that belongs to them at other times beyond all living souls barring an ass seems all to jump out of them at one turn and into the water they go. Therefore I say that men are monsters. Mother, monsters and no less to go making such heaps of canals just to tempt the poor women in. They know we shall not cut our throats, hating the sight of blood and rating our skins a handle higher nor our lives. And as for hanging, while she is a fixing of the nail and a making of the noose, she has time to alter her mind. But a jump into a canal is no more than into bed. And the water, it does all the lathe, will ye nilly? Why look at me, the mother of nine, wasn't I a gog to make a hole in our canal for the nonce? Nay, mother, I'll never believe it of you. You may, though, to us in the first year of our keeping house together, Eli hadn't found out my weak stitches then, nor I his, so we made a rent, pulling contrary wise, at a quarrel. So then I ran crying to tell some gabbling fool like myself what I had no business to tell out adores except to the saints, and there was one of our precious canals in the way. Do they take us for teal? Oh, how tempting it did look, says I to myself. Sith he has let me go out of his door quarrelled, he shall see me drowned next, and then he will change his key, he will blubber a good one, and I shall look down from heaven. I forgot I should be into the barn, and see him take on, and oh, but that will be sweet. And I was all a tiptoe, and going in, only just then I thought I wouldn't. I had got a new gowner making for one thing, and hard upon finished. So I went home instead. And what was Eli's first word? Let Yon flee, stick of the warm elast, says he. Not a word of all I said Tangody was soothed, but this. I love thee. These were his very words. I minded them being the first quarrel. So I flung my arms about his neck, and sobbed a bit, and thought of the canal. And he was no colder to me than I to him, being a man and a young one. And so then that was better than lying in the water. And spoiling my wedding-curtle, and my fine new shoeon, old John Bush made him. That was uncle to him, keeps the shop now. And what was my grief to hers? Little Kate hoped that Margaret loved her father too much to think of leaving him so at his age. He is father and mother and all to her, you know. Nay, Kate! They do forget all these things in a moment of despair when the very sky seems black above them. I place more faith in him that is unborn than on him that is ripe for the grave to keep her out of mischief. For thirties it do go sore against us to die when there's a little innocent to pulling at our hearts to let them live and feeding at our very veins. Well then, keep up a good heart, mother. She added that very likely all these fears were exaggerated. She ended by solemnly and treating her mother at all events, not to persist in naming the sex of Margaret's infant. It was so unlucky, all the gossips told her, dear heart, as if there were not as many girls born as boys. This reflection, though not unreasonable, was met with clamour. Have you the cruelty to threaten me with a girl? I want no more girls while I have you! What use would alas be to me? Can I set her on my knee and see my Gerard again as I can a boy? I tell thee, it is all settled. How may that be? In my mind, and if I am to be disappointed in the end, it isn't for you to disappoint me beforehand, telling me it is not to be a child but only a girl. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Tom Denham. Margaret Brandt had always held herself apart from Sevenbergen, and her reserve had passed for pride. This had come to her ears, and she knew many hearts were swelling with jealousy and malevolence. How would they triumph over her when her condition could no longer be concealed? This thought gnawed her night and day. For some time it had made her bury herself in the house, and shun daylight even on those rare occasions when she went abroad. Not that in her secret heart and conscience she mistook her moral situation, as my unlearned readers have done, perhaps. Though not acquainted with the nice distinctions of the contemporary law, she knew that betrothal was a marriage contract, and could no more be legally broken on either side than any other compact written and witnessed, and that marriage with another party than the betrothed had been formally annulled both by church and state, and that betrothed couples often came together without any further ceremony, and their children were legitimate. But what weighed down her simple medieval mind was this. That very contract of betrothal was not forthcoming. Instead of her keeping it, Gerard had got it, and Gerard was far, far away. She hated and despised herself for the miserable oversight which had placed her at the mercy of false opinion. For though she had never heard Horace's famous couplet, Segnius irritant, etc., she was Horatian by the plain, hard, positive intelligence which, strange to say, characterizes the judgment of her sex, when feeling happens not to blind it altogether. She gauged the understanding of the world to a T. Her marriage lines being out of sight, and in Italy, would never prevail to balance her visible pregnancy, and the sight of her child when born. What sort of a tale was this to stop slanderous tongues? I have got my marriage lines, but I cannot show them to you. What woman would believe her, or even pretend to believe her? And as she was in reality one of the most modest girls in Holland, it was women's good opinion she wanted, not men's. Even bare-faced slander attacks her sex at a great advantage, but here was slander with a face of truth. The strong-minded woman had not yet been invented, and Margaret, though by nature and by having been early-made mistress of her family, she was resolute in some respects, was weak as water in others, and weakest of all in this. Like all the elite of her sex, she was a poor little leaf, trembling at each gust of the world's opinion, true or false. Much misery may be contained in few words. I doubt if pages of description from any man's pen could make any human creature, except virtuous women, and these need no such aid, realize the anguish of a virtuous woman, foreseeing herself paraded as a frail one. Had she been frail at heart, she might have brazened it out, but she had not that advantage. She was really pure as snow, and saw the pitch coming nearer her and nearer. The poor girl sat listless hours at a time, and moaned with inner anguish. And often when her father was talking to her, and she giving mechanical replies, suddenly her cheek would burn like fire, and the old man would wonder what he had said to discompose her. Nothing. His words were less than air to her. It was the ever-present dread sent the colour of shame into her burning cheek, no matter what she seemed to be talking and thinking about. But both shame and fear rose to a climax when she came back that night from Margaret van Eyck's. Her condition was discovered, and by persons of her own sex. The old artist secluded like herself might not betray her, but Catherine, a gossip in the centre of her family, and a thick neighbourhood. One spark of hope remained. Catherine had spoken kindly, even lovingly. The situation admitted no half-course. Gerald's mother, thus roused, must either be her best friend, or worst enemy. She waited then in racking anxiety to hear more. No word came. She gave up hope. Catherine was not going to be her friend. Then she would expose her, since she had no strong and kindly feeling to balance the natural love of babbling. Then it was the wish to fly from this neighbourhood began to grow and gnaw upon her till it became a wild and passionate desire. But how persuade her father to this? Old people cling to places. He was very old and infirm. There was no course, but to make him her confident. Better so than run away from him, and she felt that would be the alternative. And now, between her uncontrollable desire to fly and hide, and her invincible aversion to speak out to a man, even to her father, she vibrated in the suspense full of lively torture, and presently betwixt these two came in one day the fatal thought, end all. Things foolishly worded are not always foolish. One of poor Catherine's bug bears, these numerous canals, did sorely tempt this poor fluctuating girl. She stood on the bank one afternoon and eyed the calm, deep water. It seemed an image of repose, and she was so harassed. No more trouble, no more fear of shame. If Gerard had not loved her, I doubt she had ended there. As it was, she kneeled by the water-side, and prayed fervently to God to keep such wicked thoughts from her. O selfish wretch, said she, to leave thy father, O wicked wretch, to kill thy child and make thy poor Gerard lose all his pain and peril undertaken for thy sight. I will tell father all, I ere this son shall set. And she went home with eager haste, lest her good resolution should ooze out ere she got there. Now, in matters domestic, the learned Peter was simple as a child, and Margaret, from the age of sixteen, had governed the house gently but absolutely. It was therefore a strange thing in this house, the faltering, irresolute way in which its young but despotic mistress addressed that person, who in a domestic sense was less important than Martin Wittenhagen, or even than the little girl who came in the morning and for a pittance washed the vessels, etc., and went home at night. Father, I would speak to thee. Speak on, girl. Will listen to me, and not try to excuse my faults? We all have our faults, Margaret, thou know more than the rest of us, but fewer, unless parental feeling blinds me. Alas, no, father, I am a poor, foolish girl that would feign do well, but have done ill, most ill, most unwisely, and now must bear the shame. But, father, I love you with all my faults, and will not you forgive my folly, and still love your motherless girl? That you may count on, said Peter cheerfully. Oh, well, smile not. For then, how can I speak and make you sad? Why, what is the matter? Father, disgrace is coming on this house. It is at the door, and I am the culprit. Oh, father, turn your head away. I, I, father, have let Gerard take away my marriage-lines. Is that all? T'was an oversight. T'was the deed of a madwoman, but woe is me, that is not the worst. Peter interrupted her. The youth is honest and loves you, dear. You are young. What is a year or two to you? Gerard will assuredly come back and keep truth. And meantime, know you what is coming? Not I, except that I shall be gone first for one. Worse than that. There is worse pain than death. Nay, for pity's sake, turn away your head, father. Foolish wench, muttered Peter, but turned his head. She trembled violently, and with her cheeks on fire began to falter out. I did look on Gerard as my husband, we being betrothed, and he was in so sore danger, and I thought I had killed him, and I, oh, if you were but my mother, I might find courage. You would question me, but you say not a word. Why, Margaret, what is all this coil about? And why are thy cheeks crimson, speaking to no stranger but to thy old father? Why are my cheeks on fire? Because, because, father, kill me, send me to heaven! Beat Martin, shoot me with his arrow! And then the gossips will come and tell you why I blushed so this day. And then, when I am dead, I hope you will love your girl again for their mother's sake. Give me thy hand, mistress, said Peter, a little sternly. She put it out to him trembling. He took it gently, and began, with some anxiety in his face, to feel her pulse. Alas, nay, said she, to my soul that burns not my body with fever, I cannot, will not, bide in seven-burgan, and she wrung her hands impatiently. Be calm now, said the old man soothingly, nor torment thyself for naught, not bide in seven-burgan, what need to bide a day as it vexes thee, and puts thee in a fever, for fever thou art, deny it not. What, cried Margaret, would you yield to go hence, and ask no reason but my longing to be gone? And suddenly, throwing herself on her knees beside him, in a fervour of supplication, she clutched his sleeve, and then his arm, and then his shoulder, while imploring him to quit this place, and not ask her why. Alas, what needs it? You will soon see it, and I could never say it. I would leave a tie. Foolish child, who seeks thy girlish secrets? Is it I, whose life have been spent in searching natures? And for leaving seven-burgan, what is there to keep me in it thee unwilling? Is there respect for me here, or gratitude? Am I not eclept quacksalver by those who come not near me, and wizard by those I heal? And give they not the girdon and the honour they deny me to the empirics that slaughter them? Besides, what is to me where we sojourn? Choose thou that as did thy mother before thee? Margaret embraced him tenderly, and wept upon his shoulder. She was respited. Yet as she wept, respited, she almost wished she had had the courage to tell him. After a while, nothing would content him, but her taking a medicament he went and brought her. She took it submissively to please him. It was the least she could do. It was a composing draught, and though administered under an error, and a common one, did her more good than harm. She awoke, calmed by a long sleep, and that very day began her preparations. Next week they went to Rotterdam, bag and baggage, and lodged above a tailor's shop in the Breda-Kirk Strait. Only one person in Tegu knew whither they were gone, the burgamaster. He locked the information in his own breast. The use he made of it ere long, ere long, my reader will not easily divine, for he did not divine it himself. But time will show.