Thou seest we are not all alone unhappy;
This wide and universal theatre
Presents more woeful pageants than the scene
Wherein we play in.—As You Like It.

Sir Patrick Gray so entirely lost his self-possession, that he was rapidly swept away, jostled, tossed and pushed here and there, by a rush of the crowd, who were making off to another part of the city where the procession would again be seen as it passed; so, after futilely struggling, and even fighting in some instances, he found himself in a dark street near one of the many bridges of the Scheldt, which flows through Antwerp by no less than eight channels, and there he paused, alone and breathless, with one hand pressed on his brow and the other on his sword.

Was it a dream, or a phantom raised by his nerves or organs of vision being disturbed by the terrible wounds he had received, and by the long and feverish hours of illness and agony he had endured in the castle of Edinburgh?

Again and again he asked this question of himself, without being able to resolve the matter satisfactorily.

He heard the bells of the cathedral still tolling; he saw the variegated lamps that glittered on its glorious spire; he heard even the hum of the distant multitude; but he dared not return and trust himself to look again, lest he might become mad, for already his brain felt weak and giddy, and he cast a haggard glance at the dark, still water that flowed with mud and slime under the quaint old bridge of the Scheldt, as strange wild thoughts occurred to him, but he thrust them aside with shame.

He looked back to the cathedral, and again he seemed to see that fair young face with its diamond tiara, and the almost ethereal form, with the finest and snowiest of Mechlin lace floating like a cloud of frostwork, cold and pure, about it. In a foreign city, amid more than two hundred thousand inhabitants, his chances of discovering who this lady was, and how she bore a resemblance so marvellous, became very slender, if she were known alone to the bishop, who made it part of his sacred drama or mystery to preserve her incognito from all—even from his clergy.

Had he been less a lover—had he waited, he might have seen other faces nearly as familiar as that of Murielle, though less startling and bewildering; but, swept away as he had been by the crowd, and having neither power nor presence of mind to regain his place, he saw no more of the procession; and, after long wandering, he thought of returning home.

The night was now considerably advanced; the cathedral bells had ceased to toll; the lights had disappeared amid the delicate traceries of its spire; there were neither moon nor stars, and there came not a breath of wind to disperse the frowsy vapour that overhung the city, and which rose from the many branches of the Scheldt. Sir Patrick had lost his way; his ignorance of the language and of the vast old city forced him to wander to and fro, vainly searching for his hostelry, "the Grille of St. Laurence;" but day dawned before he discovered it and presented himself, to the joy of MaÎtre Baudoin, who feared that he had become embroiled with some of the bishop's men-at-arms, or the Marquises Brabanciones, in the citadel—a surmise which naturally led the maÎtre to ponder upon the value of Sir Patrick's horse and its housings, and also of his cloakbag, which might thereby fall into his possession.

"How came you to leave me, messire, in such a hurry and at such a time?" asked the little Frenchman.

Gray frankly told him that he thought—indeed that he was almost certain—he had recognized a dear friend in the damsel who appeared as our Lady of Antwerp.

"Ah, MÈre de Dieu! do you say so?" exclaimed MaÎtre Baudoin, with sudden interest, "then who is she?"

"That is exactly what I wish to know; and shall know, too, ere noon be past."

"Ay, ay, pardieu! but no one can tell you."

"None!"

"Save Monseigneur l'EvÊque himself."

"The bishop of Mechlin?"

"Yes, messire."

"I will fly to him!"

"But he left the city after the show was over. I saw him myself, as with all his knights and men-at-arms, and with several ladies——"

"Ladies, say you?"

"Yes, in horse-litters; he passed out by the gate of St. James."

"For where?" asked Gray, starting up.

"I know not."

"Do none in Antwerp know?" asked Gray, impatiently.

"Some say for Mechlin—others for Breda."

"Get me a fleet horse, MaÎtre Baudoin—I can pay you well—I must see this bishop—"

"Horses?—do you mean to ride to both places at once?"

"No—to the nearest first."

"Vain, vain, messire," said the hosteller, shrugging his shoulders, "be assured that he will not tell you."

"Not if I implore him to do so?"

"Not if you dashed out your brains—morbleu!"

"Where did the lady go after the procession dispersed?"

"Back to the cathedral—it is the custom."

"Oh! she may be there yet."

"Ouf, messire! would you have a pretty girl to sleep all night among these cold marble knights and dead bishops? She has left it, of course; but amid the thousands who have left or are leaving the city, and the great trains of the prince of Ravenstein, the counts of Nassau, Bommel, and others, now departing by all our gates and bridges, the task of tracing and discovering her would be no sinecure."

Sir Patrick stamped his right foot with vexation.

"If I had your devil of a bishop on Scottish ground, I would soon wrench the secret out of him."

"Perhaps so, messire; but he has at Mechlin an ugly wheel whereon folks are sometimes broken alive; and that is not pleasant. Is messire sure that he recognized the lady?"

"Sure, MaÎtre Baudoin, as that I now speak to you. Oh! I would know that sweet face among ten thousand."

"Sweet—hum;" the little Frenchman began to get quite interested; "is she a countrywoman of messire?"

"Yes."

"A sister?" persisted the hosteller, who burned with curiosity.

"No—no."

"Perhaps she is the mother of messire?"

"Prater, how thou talkest! she is my best beloved—my betrothed wife!" said Gray, with enthusiasm.

"Diable! Bon Dieu!" exclaimed Baudoin, making a pirouette. "Messire must not despair."

"I do not despair, MaÎtre Baudoin; but I am sorely bewildered," said poor Gray, passing a hand across his scarred forehead.

"Messire, with your permission, I shall tell you a little story."

"Say on, my friend."

"Have you perceived near the church of Jesus—just about thirty paces from it—a well, covered with curious ironwork?"

"Yes; what about it?"

"The branches from which the pulley hangs are rich with foliaged work of iron, and are deemed a miracle of skill. They were the chef d'oeuvre of a famous young smith of Antwerp who dearly loved the daughter of a great painter, and desired greatly to win his esteem; so he lavished all the energies of his soul, and all the cunning of his hands, all his skill and experience, upon that piece of ironwork; but when it was finished, monsieur the painter viewed it coldly, and said, crustily,

"'I cannot agree to have you for a son-in-law.'"

"'I am rich, young, and skilful,' urged the unfortunate lover. 'I am a smith.'

"'For that very reason you shall not have my daughter; for she shall wed a painter, and a painter only!'

"Our smith did not lose heart, but he threw his beloved hammer into the well, where it lies to this day; he assumed the pencil and palette, and after working assiduously, he rapidly became a master in the art; he excelled even the surly old painter who had disdained him; he won for himself a high position in our city, and with it his beautiful young mistress; and all this you may see graven on the brass plate of their tomb, near the gate of the cathedral. But does messire hear me?"

"Yes; but, prythee, MaÎtre Baudoin, what the devil has all this story about painters and smiths, palettes and draw-wells, to do with me?"

"Everything."

"How? I am not in a humour for jesting."

"It is a homily," said the Frenchman, with a low bow.

"Leave homilies to monks and friars; but for what is yours meant?"

"To teach you to hope much and to persevere long; even as that poor lover persevered and hoped."

Three days longer Gray lingered in Antwerp, searching and inquiring everywhere in vain, till at last, in despair of unravelling the mystery, on the subsidence of the waters of the Maese, he ordered his horse, bade adieu to the gossiping MaÎtre Baudoin, and set out for the court of the duke of Gueldres; having at last all but convinced himself that the face which he had recognized in our Lady of Antwerp was the creation of his own imagination, or at most some very remarkable resemblance.

Yet it was no vision he had seen during the night of that festival—but Murielle Douglas herself—the veritable object of all his hope and love.

We have already stated that the earl of Douglas had left Scotland ostensibly to visit Pope Eugene IV., taking with him the countess, Murielle, and a brilliant train.

The latter, says Tytler (in his "History of Scotland"), consisted of six knights, with their own suites and attendants, and fourteen gentlemen of the best families in the realm, with a retinue of eighty men-at-arms on horseback. Among these were Sir John Forrester, of Corstorphine; Sir Alan Lauder, of the Bass; William Campbell, thane of Cawdor and constable of the castle of Nairne—"all knights," adds Lindesay, of Pitscottie, "whose convoy maid the earle so proud and insolent, that he represented a kingis magnificence wherever he went. Out of Flanderis he passed to France, and out of France to Italie, and so forwardis to Rome, where the Romanes having knowledge of his cuming, mett him with an honourable companie, and veri princelie receaved him within the toun."

In this quotation, however, we are somewhat anticipating the course of events, for Gray and Murielle were yet to meet before the earl and his retinue left Flanders to visit the court of Charles VII. of France.