He felt his resolution shrinking, and awaited the curse he had defied in an anguish like that of death.
All present waited for the reply of the old Count with anxious expectation. At last he threw his aged arms round his son's neck, and cried with tears of love and joy.
"Oh, my noble son! my blood—the blood of the Counts of Flanders—flows undegenerate in your veins! Your disobedience has bestowed on me the happiest day of my life. Now willingly could I die! One more embrace, my son; for words do not suffice to express the joy of my heart."
Admiration and sympathy filled the hearts of all the noble company, who looked on in solemn silence, while the old Count, releasing his son from his embrace, and turning to his barons, exclaimed enthusiastically:
"See, my friends; such was I in my younger days, and such have the Dampierres ever been. Judge by what you have seen and heard whether Robert de Bethune docs not deserve to wear his father's coronet. Such are the men of Flanders! Yes, my son, you are right; a Count of Flanders must bow his head before no stranger. But I am old; I am the poor imprisoned Philippa's father, and yours, my brave son. I w41l myself kneel before Philip; since such is the will of God, I humbly submit. And you, Robert, shall go with me; but not to bow the head or bend the knee before the oppressor. Hold yourself, as ever, erect; that so there may be a Count of Flanders after me free from shame and reproach."
The various preparations for the journey were now discussed at length, and many important points were deliberated upon and settled. Robert de Bethune, now calmer and more collected, left the hall, and proceeding to the smaller apartment, where Matilda still remained, he took the maiden by the hand, and led her to a chair; then drawing one for himself, he sat down beside her.
"My dear Matilda," he began, "you love your father, do you not?"
"You know I do," was the reply, while she caressed the knight's bearded cheek with her soft hand.
"But," he continued, "would you not also love a man that ventured his life in my defense?"
"Yes, surely; and bear him eternal gratitude."
"Well, then, my daughter; a knight has risked his life in your father's quarrel, and is sorely wounded, perhaps even unto death."
"O God! I will pray for his recovery forty days, and more too!"
"Do so, my child, and for me too; but I have to ask yet something more of you."
"Speak, my father; I am your obedient child."
"Understand me well, Matilda; we are going for some days on a journey, your grandfather and I, and all the knights that are here with us. Who, then, shall give the poor wounded knight to drink when he is thirsty?"
"Who? I, my father; I will never leave his side till you return. I will take my hawk into his chamber, and be his constant attendant. Fear not that I will leave him to the servants; my own hand shall hold the cup to his lips. His recovery shall be my best hope and my dearest joy."
"That is wxll, my child; I know your loving heart; but you must, moreover, promise me that in the first days of his illness you will keep his chamber perfectly still; make no noise there yourself, nor let any one else do so."
"Fear not for that, father; I will talk to my hawk so softly that not one word of it shall the wounded knight hear."
Robert took his daughter by the hand, and led her out of the chamber.
"I must show you your patient," he said; "but speak low while you are with him."
Meanwhile Adolf of Nieuwland had been carried by the attendants into a chamber of Robert's lodging, and laid upon a bed; two surgeons had bound up his wounds, and now stood with Diederik die Vos by the bedside. No sign of life was to be perceived; the countenance of the young knight was pale and his eyes closed.
"Well, Master Roger," inquired Robert of one of the surgeons, "how goes it with our unfortunate friend?"
"But badly, my lord," answered Roger; "but badly indeed. I can not, at this moment, say what hope there is; and yet I have a sort of presentiment that he will not die."
"Then the wound is not mortal?"
"Well, it is and it is not; nature is the best physician, and often works cures which neither mineral nor simple could effect. I have laid upon his breast, too, a thorn from the Holy Crown; the virtue of that relic will, I trust, assist us."
During this conversation Matilda had gradually approached the bed; and her curiosity having led her to look at the wounded knight's face, she suddenly recognized that of her dear friend and playfellow. With a mournful cry she started back, tears burst from her eyes, and she sobbed aloud.
"What is this, my child?" said Robert, "are you no better mistress of yourself than that? Know you not that one must be calm and quiet by a wounded man's bedside!"
"Calm shall I be! Calm when our poor Adolf lies at the point of death! He that taught me such sweet songs! Who shall be our minstrel at Wynandael now? Who shall help me to break my hawks, and be to me as a brother?" And then approaching the bed again, she wept over him as he lay insensible, and at last sobbed out: "Sir Adolf! Sir Adolf! my good brother!"
But no answer came. Covering her face with her hands, she fell back in an agony of grief into a chair.
After some little time thus spent, Robert, seeing that she was unable to command
