The morning star and Catholic messenger. [volume], September 13, 1874, Morning, Page 2, Image 2

About The morning star and Catholic messenger. [volume] (New Orleans [La.]) 1868-1881

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-Wanimt Star and Catholic Mesnger.1
r w.. W as r., aZs'ZrrmaU Y s11-.. ,r
+e -y... `s" sd.,o, thli
a- ving tiapirationu and on you, Messire de
Valois, for your nobleness of soul!" cried
ounat Guy Joyfully. "0 God ! if only I may
be able to dry the tears of my poor child ! Bat
alas, who knows whether instead of that, I
may not myself And a dungeon and fetters in
that fatal land of Franue !"
"1ear not, Count I fear not !" answered De
Valohe, " I will myself be your advocate and
your protector; and a safe conduct under my
seal and princely honor shall secore your free
seturn, even should my efforts be in vain."
Guy let fall his rein, seizsed the French
rtjnee's hand, and pressing it with fervent
gratitude, exolaimed:
* You are a noble enemy i"
Meanwhile, as they thus discoursed, they had
reseahed a wide plain, apparently of endless
extent, watered by the gurgling stream of the
rekel. All now made ready for the sport.
The Flemish knights took each his falcon on
his wrist; the strings which held the birds
were made ready for casting off, and the
hounds were properly distributed.
Knights and ladies were promiscuously
mingled together; by chance Charles de
Valois found himself by the side of the fair
Matilda.
"I cannot but think, fair lady," said he,
"that you will bear away the prize of the day;
for a fluer bird than yours I have never beheld.
What perfect plumage! what powerful wings I
and then the yellow scales upon her claws! Is
she heavy on the hand 1"
"Yes, indeed, Meseire," answered Matilda;
" and although she has only been broken to, a
low fight, yet she would be quite a match for
any crane or heron 1"
"It asuems to me," remarked De Valois, "that
she is somewhat full in flesh. Would it not be
better, lady, to give her her food softer t"
' Oh, no! excase me; no I Meesir De Valois,"
cried the young lady, piqued for her reputation
for good falconry, " I am sure you are wrong
there; my bird is just as she should be.
Something of these matters I think I know; I
have myself trained this noble bird, have
watched her by night, and prepared her food
myself. But quick, Messire de Valois, out of
the way; for just over the brook there flies a
snib"
s'hile the prince fixed his eye upon the point
indicated, Matilda quickly unhooded her
falcon, and cast her off.
The bird gave four or five strokes with her
wings, and then circled gracefully before her
mistress.
"Off, off, dear falcon !" cried Matilda.
And at these words the bird rose skyward
like an arrow, till the eye could no longer fol
low it; then for some moments, poised in the
air andmotionless, she soughtiwith her piercing
eye her quarry ; there, afar off, flew the snipe,
and more swiftly than a stone from on high,
stooped the falcon on the poor victim, which
she soon held in her sharp talons.
There, Mesire de Valois 1" cried Matilda ex
ulklngly; " now you may see that a Flemish
lady can break a hawk i only look, how skil
fully the faithful bird brings in her quarry!"
And the last words werehardly over her lips
before the falcon was again upon her hand with
the snipe in its talons.
" May I have the honor to receive the game
from your fair hand 1" asked Messire de Valois.
Butat this request the young lady's counte
nance became somewhat troubled; she looked
imploringly on the knight, and said:
"I hope, Messire de Valois, that you will not
take it amiss; but I had already promised my
first quarry to my brother Adolf, who is stand
ing yonder beside my father."
"Your brother William, mean you not, lady 1"
" No; our brother Adolf of Nieuwland. He
is so kind, so obliging to me; he helps me in
training my hawks, teaches me songs and tales
and plays to me on the harp; we all in trutl
heartily love him."
While Matilda was thus speaking, Charles
de Valois had been regarding her with the
oeloest attention ; he soon, however, convinced
bimnelf bs.t friondahip was. the only feeling
which the yong lnight had excited in her
bosom.
" It so," asid 4b prince with a smile, "he
indeed well merits this favor. Do not, I pray
you, let me detain you a moment longer."
And immediately, without heeding the pres
ence of the ther knights, she called as loud as
she could:
"Adolf Adolf!" and joyous as a child, she
held up the snipe for him to see.
At her call the young knight hastened up to
her.
"Here, Adolf," added she, "is your reward
for the pretty tale you last taught me."
He bowed respectfully, and received the
snipe with pleasure. The others regarded him
balf with envy, half with ouriosity; and more
than one sought to decipher a tender secret
upon his countenance: but all such specula
tions were in vain. Suddenly a loud exclama
tion oalled every one's attention to the sport.
" Quick !I Mesire de Bethsnne!" cried the
chief falconer; "loose your bawk's hood and
cast her off: yonder runs a hare."
A moment later, and the bird was hovering
above the elouds, and then swooped perpen- 1
dicularly upon the victim as it fled. It was a
strange sight to see. The hawk had struck its
claws deep intohe uhare's back as it ran, and I
so held fast to it, while both together rushed
onward like the wind. But this did not last
long; for the hawk, loosing one claw, seised d
bold with it of a tree, and with the other held
bher prey so fast, that inspite of its desperate r
aruggllng there was no escape for it. And f
now several dogs were uncoupled; 'hese hur
rying up, received the hare from the hawk, n
which now,-as it exulting in its victory, hov- f
erd alo;t over the dogs and the huntsamen, u
exhibiting its joy in the most various sweeps I
sad turns. I
"Macsie de Bethane," cried De Valola t
"that ia a bawk that knows her businest! A k
finer gerleon I never aw !"
U To asy no more of her than abe deserves, a
Mln r.'med Rbert 5 l.+"I a meomut ye A
. ,4  l"I.. ,.+..lI,,'.4 , I +, , :.+., + •
, With these wordhe lifted up his lore, eg
Seatching sight of which the hawk immediately
Sreturned to her master's set.
Is " Look herpprooeeded Robert, showing the
ea bird to De Valois; "see what beautiful fair
d colored plumage, what a snow white breast,
y and what deep blue claws."
i "Yes, indeed, Messire Robert," answered De
I Valois, "thats in very truth a bird that
n might hold comparison with an eagle. But it
seems to me that she is bleeding." _
e Robert hastily inspected his hawk's legs,
I and cried impatiently :
" Falconer, hither, quick I my birdis hurt; the
s poor thing has tried its claws too much. Let
her be well seen to; you, Stephen, keep her
under your own eye; I would not loose her for
more than I care to tell."
And he gave the wounded hawk to Stephen,
his trainer, who all but wept at the accident;
for the hawks he had broken and tended were
to him as his very children.
After the chief persons present had Sown
their hawks, the sport became more general.
1 For two hours the party continued the chase
after various kinds of birds of high Alightsuch
as ducks, herons and cranes, without, at the
same time, sparing those of low flight, among
which were partridges, fieldfares and curlews.
By this time it was noon; and now, at the
r cheerful summons of the horns, the whole
party came together again from every side, and
proceeded on their way back to Wynandael as
fast as a moderate pace could carry them.
On the way, Charles de Valois resumed his
conversation with the old Count Guy. The
latter, much as he mistrusted the result of the
proposed expedition into France, was yet, out
of love for his children, disposed to undertake
it; and finally, on the repeated instances of
the French prince, resolved on casting himself
at King Philip's feet, with all the nobles who
remained faithful to him, in the hope that so
humiliating a homage might move the con
queror to compassion. The absence of Queen
Joanna flattered him with a ray of hope that
he should not find her husband inexorable.
Since their morning's quarrel Robert de
Bethune and De Chatillon had not met again;
they purposely avoided each other, and neither
of them said another word on the subject of
what had passed between them. Adolf of
Nienwland was now riding beside Matilda and
her brother William. The young lady was ev
idently occupied in learning off some lay or
tale which Adolf was repeating to her; for
every now and then one of herladies exclaimed
in admiration :
" What a master in minstrelsy Sir Adolf of
Nienwland s !"
And so at last they got baclkto Wynandael.
The whole train entered the castle;-but this
time the bridge wos not raised nor did the
portcullis fall, and after a delay of a few min
utes the French knights issued again from its
walls armed as they had come. As they rode
over the bridge De Chatillon observed to his
brother :
" You know that I have this evening to up
hpld the honor of our niece; I reckon on you
as Iny second."
" Against this rough-spoken Robert de Be
thune " asked St. Pol. "I know not what
may happen, but I fear you may -come but
badly out of it; for this Lion of Flanders is
no cat to be taken hold of without gloves, and
that you know as well as I."
" What is that to the purpose I" answered
De Chatillon hastily. " A knight trusts to his
skill and valor, and not to mere strength."
S"Yo are quite right, my good brother; a
knight must hold his ground against every
one, be he who he may; but for all that it is
r better not to expose oneself unnecessarily. In
your place I should have let Robert talk his
spite out. What signifies what he says now
that his lands are gone, and he is as good as
our prisoner ?"
"Be silent, St. Pol. Is that a seemly way to
talk t are you a coward t"
As he spoke these words they disappeared
among the trees. And now the portcullis fell;
the bridge was raised ; and the interior of the
castle was again concealed from view.
CHAPTERn III.
- The knight, or minstrel, who was admitted
within the walls of Wynandael by the hospi
tality or compassion of its inhabitants, -found
himself on passing its gates in an open square;
on his right he saw the stables, amply sufficient
for a hundred horses, before which innumera
ble pigeons and ducks were picking up the
stray grain; on his left were the lodgings for
the soldiers and military retainers of all kinds,
together with the magazines for the siege ar
tillery of that day; as, for instance, battering
rame, with their carriages and supports, bal
istas, which at one cast threw a shower of
arrows into the besieged place, and catapults,
which hurled crushing masses of stone against
the hostile walls; besides scaling ladders, ire
barrels, and other like implements of war.
Right in front of the entrance lay the resi
dence of the Count and his family, risinog ma
jestically with its turrets above the lower
buildings about it. A flight of stone steps, at
the foot of which two black lions reposed, gave
entrance to the ground floor, consisting of a
long range of quadrangular rooms, many of
them provided with beds for the accommoda
tlon of chance guests, others decorated with
the arms of bygone Counts of Flanders, and
with banners and pennonus won on many a hard
fought field.
On the right hand side, in one corner of this
vast building, was a smaller apartment, alto
gether difParent from the rest. On the tapestry
with which its walls were adorned might be
read the whole story of the sixth crusade in i
figures which almost looked alive. On one side
stood Guy, armed from head to foot, and sur
rounded by his warriors, who were receiving
from his hands the Cross; in the background
was a long train of men-at-arms already on
their way to the scene of action. The second I
side exhibited the battle of Massar, won by I
the Christian army in the year 1250. St. Louis, a
klig of Franoe, and Count GOy, were diatin I.
guisbable fkom the other fgaes by their ban
ner. The third side presented ahidesousses.
A multituda o k aLie g nlshe r L tag e
ii carpses of their essraLessad the careasses-of
ly hormes, black raves eflw over the fated camp,
watbching for each one's death to gorge them
e alves with his flesh. -The -fterth side bhowed
ir the happy return of the Count of Flanders.
t, His first wife, Fogaets of Bethune, lay weeping
on his breast, while her little sons Robert and
te Baldwin lovingly pressed his hand in theirs.
At By the marble chimney piece, within which
it a small wood Are was, borning, sat the old
Count Guy in a massive arm chair. Full of
s, 'deep thought, he was supporting his head on
his right hand, his eye-resting unoonsciously
to on his son William, who was busily reading
At prayers from a book with silver clasps. Ma
sr tilde, Robert de Bethune's youthful daughter,
ir stood with her hawk on the other side of the
chamber. She was caressnlg the bird, without
i, heeding her grandfather or uncle; while Guy,
i with a dark- misgiving of the future, was
' brooding over the past, and William was pray
ing to heaven for some.alleviation of their
n sorrows, she was playing with her favorite,
i. without a thought that her father's inherit
O anoe was confseated, and possessed by his
h enemies. Not tha wes wanting in feeling;
.e but, half-child 'is was, her sorrow did not
g last beyongdt5ie ili ate impression which
*- excited it. When 'lstiwas told that all the
e towns of Flanders west occupied by the foe,
e she burst into abnndant and bitter tears; but
d by the evening of that self-same day her tears
s were dried and forgotten, and she was ready to
caress her hawk as before.
4 After Guy's eyes had for some time rested
ue nmeaningly upon his son, he suddenly let
a fall the hand which supported his head, and
t asked:"
° "William, my'son, what is it you are asking
so fervently of GOnd t
S"I am praying for my poor sister Philippa,"
o was the youth's answer; "God knows, my
o father, whether the Queen Joanna has not al
- ready sent her to her grave; but in that case
a my prayers are for her soul."
And as he spoke he bowed forward his head,
as if to conceal the tears which fell from his
a eyes.
The old father sighed heavily and painfully.
r He felt that his son's evil forboding might but
f too easily turn out true, for Joanna of Navarre
was wicked enough to make it so: nevertheless
d he would not give utterance to such a feeling,
and so he only replied:
r "It is not right, William, to sadden yourself
'r with forebodings of evil. Hope is given to is
d mortals for our consolation here on earth; and
why, then should you not hopet Since your
sister has been in prison, you mourn and pine
so, that not a smile ever passes over your
countenance. It is well to feel for your sister;
a but in God's name do not give yourself up to
Sthis dark despair."
" Smile, said you, father T smile while our
poor Philippe is buried in a dungeon ? No,
that I can not ! Her tears drop upon the cold
ground in the silence of her dungeon; she cries
to heaven because of her sorrows; she calls on
you, my father,-she calls on us all for
n relief; and who answers her the hollow
echo of the deep vaults of the Louvre!
See you her not, pale as death, wasted and
faded like a dying flower, with her hands raised
to heaven ? hear you her not, how she cries,
a' My father, my brothers help me; I am dying
in these chains!' All this I see and hear in
d my heart; I feel it in my soul; how, then, can
I smile f"
Matilda, who had half listened to these sor
rowful words, set her hawk hastily on the back
a of a chair, and fell with a violent burst of
y tears and sobbing at the feet of her grand
a father. Laying her head on his knees,shc cried
n out piteously -
" Is my dear aunt dead T O God ! what sor
Ssow! Shall I not then see her again I"
e The old Count raised her tenderly from the
ground, and said kindly :
" Be calm, my dear Matilda; weep :not;
Philippe is not dead."
"Not dead!" exclaimed the girl with aston
ishment; why, then, does my uncle William
e speak so of death T"
" You do not understand him," answered the
Count; "we know of no change that has
i taken place with regard to her."
The young girl then dried her tears, casting
the while a reproachful look upon William,
and saying to him, in the midst of her sobs:
" You are always saddening me to no pur
pose, uncle! One would think that you had
a forgotten all words of comfort; for you ever
r talk in a way that makes me tremble. My
very hawk is frightened at your voice, it sounds
so hollow ! It is not kind of you, uncle, and
- it vexes me much."
William regarded his niece with eyes that
f seemed full of sorrow for the suffering he had
caused her. No sooner had Matilda perceived
this look of grief, than, running up to him,
and seizing tenderly one of his hands:
"Forgive me, dear uncle William !" she said
"I do love you dearly; but do you too thinkI
of me, and not torture me so with that terrible
word, death, which is now ever upon your lips
and in my ears. Forgive me, I pray you."
And before her uncle could answer her, she
had already returned to the other end of the
room, and was playing with her hawk again,
though with tears still in her eyes.
"My son," said Count Guy, "do not take our I
little Matilda's words amiss; you know she
does not mean unkindly." 1
"I forgive her, sir, from my heart; for, in- I
deed, I love her from my heart And the sor- *
row which she showed at my poor sister's sop- a
posed death was comforting to tue."
And again Wi' a opened his book and read, e
this time alond: t
"0 Jesus Christ the Saviour, bhave mercy "
upon my poor slasterl By thy bitter pasgs
release her, O Lord!" i
And as the name of his Lord soundedl iu ti . ii
old Count's ears, he uncovered his head, folded C
his hands, and joiurd in William's prayer. tl
Matilda set down her hawk again on the back a
of a chair, and knelt in a corner of the cham- g
her, on a great cushion, before a orucifi. al
William went on:
"P Blessed Mary, Mother of God, hsar me, I
Way! Omfort her It. the Lark 4aau, O
f "0O Jesusn sweet J.sI fall of pityl here
y, merey on my pooz blter t1
Count Gay waitedill the prayer was at an
d end, and theb asked, without giving further
s. heed toatilda, who bad again returned to
g herhwk :
d 'Tell me one thing, William; do you not
n. think that we owe great thanks to Mesalre do
h Valoe 1"
d " Meiilre de Valois is the worthiest knight I
,f know," answered the youth; "he has treated
n us with true generosity; he has honored your
y grey hairs, and even done his best to give you
g some comfort. I well know that all our
r- troubles, and my sister's imprisonment, wonlI
r, soon be at an end, if it depended on him. May
e God grant him eternal bliss for his nobleness
it of heart 1"
, " Yes, may God be gracious to him in his last
a hour!" said the old Count. "Can you under
r- stand my son, how it is that our enemy should
ir be noble enough to endanger himself for our
s, sakes, and bring upon himself the hatred of
G- Joanna of Navarre I"
a " Yes, my father, I do understand it, when it
is Charles do Valois that does it. But, after
t all, what oan he do for us and my sister "
h "Listen, William; This morning, as we were
a riding together to the hawking, be showed me
, a way whereby, with God's help, we may be
t reconciled with King Philip."
s In a transport of joy the young man struck
o his hands together, and exclaimed:
" O Heaven I His good angel must have
I spoken by his mouth I And what is it you have
t to do, my father ?"
- "I, with my nobles, must go to the king at
Compiegne, and throw ourselves at his feet."
A "And Queen Joanna 9"
"The implacable Joanna of Navarre is at
' Paris, and Enguerrand de Marigny with her.
Never was there a moment so favorable as
this."
" The Lord grant that your hope may not
deceive you! And when will you undertake
this perilous expedition, my father ?"
a "The day after to-morrow Mesaire de Valois
comes to Wynandael with his suite, and he
will accompany us. I have called together
t those nobles who remained true to me in my
e misfortunes, in order to inform them of this
a matter. But your brother Robert comes not; r
how is it that he has not yet returned to the 1
castle f"
f "Have you already forgotten his quarrel of
3 this morning, my father ? be has had to clear
1 himself of the lie direct; of course he is with
r De Chatillon."
" You are right, William. I had forgotton
that. This quarrel may do us harm; for Mes
sire de Chatillon is powerful at the court of
Philip the Fair."
In those times honor and good name were a
r knight's dearest possessions, and not the shad
ow of a reproach could be allowed to pass
I upon them without a demand for instant reck
s oning; combats, therefore, were matters of
a daily occurrence, and excited but little atten
r tion.
Presently Guy rose, and said:
S "There, I hear the bridge fall; doubtless my
I faithful nobles are already there. Come, let us
I go to the great hall."
And immediately they went out together,
leaving the young Matilda alone, had took
1 their way to the hall where they were speedily
joined by the Lords cf Maldeghem, of Roode,
of Courtrai, of Oudenarde, of Heyle, of Nev
- ele, of Roubuis, Walter of Lovendeghem, with
c his two brothers, and several ,more, who came
f in one after the other, to the number of two
and-fifty in all. Some of them were already
I temporarily lodged in the castle, others had
their possessions and residences in the neigh
boring plain.
All stood with uncovered head before their
lord, anxiously awaiting the intelligence or
command be might have tercommunicate. After
keeping silence for soome little time, Count Guy
addressed them thus:
" My friends it is well known to you that the
true obedience with which I have ever followed
the commands of my liege lord, King Philip, t
has been the cause of all my misfortunes. He
it was that laid it upon me to call the city cor
porations to account for their government,
which I therefore as a true subject and vassal d
desired and attempted to do. Then the city of
Broges refused me obedience, and my subjects
rose against me. . . . Afterwards, when I
went into France to do my homage to the king
he made me prisoner; and not only me, but
my poor child, who was with me, and who still
I groans in the dungeons of the Louvre. All
this you know; for you were the companions G
of your prince. Then, as became me, I sought
to make good my rights with arms; but for
tune was against us, and the false Edward of
England disregarded the bond we had entered r
into, and deserted us in our need. Now my
land is contiscated; I am now the least among
you, and your prince no more; another is now n
your lord." o
" Not yet!" cried Walter of Lovendeghem;
" when that day comes I break my sword for
ever. I know no other lord than the nobleGuy a
of Dampierre."
" Sir Walter of Lovendeghem, your faithfol
attachment is troly gratifying to me; but hear
me patiently to the end. Mesaire de Valois
has overrun Flanders with his arms, and has tl
now received it as a tief from his brother King fe
Philip. Were it not for his magnanimity, I ,
should not be with you here at Wynandael;
for he it was that assigned me this pleasant
abodhe. iBut this is not all; he has resolved to m
build up again the house of Flunders, and to
set ome once more on my father's seat. That is F,
the matter which I have to speak of with you, al
,nmy t.obl friends; for I need your help in it." th
I'he astonishnment of all present, who were or
lis,,.iitg with the deepest attention, reached th
its Iirhtest pitch at this announcement. That
Charles de Valois should be willing to give up ye
the land he had won and taken possesion of, Ph
seemed to them ut'erly incredible. They re- ye
garded the Count with looks that expressed we
all they felt; and after a shbrt pause he re
sumed: a
"My noble frlends, I doubt not in the least
your afeetio for me; thnredse l speak a thq el
Mag~ etssraskniae as
r! XsuV t which I now make to jyou; $o.pseftW
I set ouat for Franoe,.to throw myself at the
bU klrg's feet, and I desire to be accompanied by
or you, my faiitthl nobles."
to All present answered,'oneafter another, that
they were ready to asecompany and stand by
at their Count, where and when and in what way
Io he would. All answered him except one, Died
erik die Yos.
I " Sir Diederik," asked the lount, " will you
,d not go with us t"
ar "Surely, surely," answered he, thus person
on ally appealed to, " the fox will go with you,
ir were it to the month of helL But I tell you,
noble Count-forgive me, but I moust have my
7 say-I tell you, that one need be no fox to see
as where the trap lies here. " What I after ones
having been caught in this way, will you run
st into the very same snare again f God grant
r- that all may turn out well ; but one thing I
Ld tell you, Philip the Fair shall not catch the
ir fox."
)f "You judge-and speak too lightly, Sir Died
erik." answered Guy; " we are to have a writ
it ten safe conduct from Charles de Valois, and
sr his honor pledged for our free return to Flan
ders.."
re The Flemish nobles, well knowing De Valois
•e as a model of knightly honor and good faith,
e were satisfied to trust to his promise, and went
on to discuss the matter with the old Count.
k MeanwhileDiederik slipped unobserved out of
the hall, and wandered up and down the outer
re court wrapped in deep thought.
re Before he had spent much time in this occu
pation, the bridge was lowered, and Robert'de
it Bethune entered the castle. As soon ashehad
dismounted, Diederik approached, and thus
addressed him:
It "I need not ask, noble Count, as to the re
r. sult of your affair to-day : the Lion's sword has
'a never failed him yet; doubtless by this time
Reesire de Chatillon is on his journey for the
t other world."
e "No," answered Robert; "my sword came
down upon his helmet in such sort that he will
Is hardly speak for some days to come. He is not
e dead, God be praised for that; but another
r mishap has befallen us. Adolf of Nienwland,
r who was with me as my second, fought with
a St. Pol, and he bad already wounded his oppo
Snent in the head, when his breastplate failed
e him; upon which he received a severe wound,
I fear even a mortal one. In a few minutes
f you will see hide, for my men are now carrying
r him hither."
I "But say, my lord," proceeded Diederik;
"think you not that this journey to France is
a venture somewhat of the rashest f"
"What journey T I know not what you
f mean t"
"What! you have not yet heard of it T"
"a Not one word."
"- Well, we set off to-morrow with your noble
a father for France."
"What is it you say, Diederik ? are you jest
f ng,-to France T"
"Yes, Lord Robert. To throw ourselves at
the feet of the French king, and sue for for
giveness. I have never yet seen a cat creep
I into a sack of her own accord ; but before long
a I shall see it at Campiegne, or I am greatly
mistaken."
" But are you quite sure of what you say,
k Diederik t You fill me with alarm."
S " Sure, do yen say T Be pleased to go into
' the hall; there you may see all your friends
assembled with your father. To-morrow we
h set out for our prison. Believe me then, and
e cross yourself when you leave WynandaeL"
Robert could hardly contain himself for in
dignation at this intelligence.
" Diederik, my friend," he said, " I pray you
have my poor Adolf taken up to my own
chamber when he is brought in, and laid upon
r the left hand bed. See that he is duly cared
r for until I can come myself; and send, too, for
r Master Roger to dress his wounds."
' And with these words, he hurried away to
the hall, whore the Count was still in confer
e ence wlth his nobles, and pressed forward has
tily till he stood before his father, not a little i
to the astonishment of all present; for he
was still in full armor from head to foot.
"O my lord, and father !" cried he; " what
report is this I hear T are you really about to
deliver yourself up to your enemies, that they
may make a mock of your grey hairs T that the
vile Joanna may cast you into fetters t"
" Yes, my son," answered the Count stead
fastly; " I am going to france, and you with
me,-anch is the will of your father."
"Let it be so, then," replied Robert: "I will
I go with you; but not to fall at the king's feet !
God forbid that we should so humiliate our
selves!"
" It must be so, my son; and it behooves
you to accompany me," was the unalterable
reply.
"I !" cried Robert in fury; " I fall at Phil
ip's feet ! I, Robert de Bethune, prostrate
myself before our foe! What! shall the Lion
of Flanders how his head before a Frenchman,
a maker of false coin, a perjored prince "
The Count was silent for a few minutes; but
as soon as Robert's first burst of indignation
had subsided, he resumed:
"And yet, my son, you will do it for my
sake ?"
" No, never !" cried Robert; "never shall
that blot rest upon my shield. Bow before a
foreigner--I! You know not your son, my
father !"
"Robert," pursued the old Count calmly,
" your father's will is a law for you: I com
mand it!"
" No!" cried Robert yet again; "the Lion of
Flanders bites, and fewns not. Before God
alone, and you, my father, bare I ever bowed
the head or boent the knee; and no other man
on earth shall be able to say of me that I have
thus humbled myself before him."
"But Robert," insisted his father, "have
you no compassion for me, for your poor sister
Philippa, and forour unhappy country, that
you thus rejeet the one only means by whieh
we may yet be delivered I"
Robert wrung his hands violently, in a very
agony of grief and anger.
" What will yoe now, my father " he ex
elaissi; "do goet ladee twksda tht a Fraeb;
entreaty' e t.1:o- po avaiL: I.- 'I
Two tears glliatiii4 uponutN6 oWmWas -
low cheeks. The singular expr sion o
countenance threw the looke.ors lsPo ma'
whether it was joy or grief that hiinet
him, for at the same .time a smiofe o
seemed to borer on his conutenance.
(To be oantanuse.)
Be, it possible, loved by evert. one but
have a small number of friends ; bees Y1 .
choose them welL " -s
e MEDICAL ADVERTISE NlETS.
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Sto as one of the ou t
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111J). t Lliii ueou legettr