The arrival and entry of the French troops had filled Adolf of Nieuwland with the most serious apprehensions for his young charge, now in the midst of her enemies, and totally without defense; for though Deconinck, indeed, visited her daily, and watched over her without intermission, yet this was not enough to set at ease the mind of the young knight. After the lapse of some weeks, however, finding that in fact no molestation was offered to the fair girl, he began to think that the French had either forgotten her existence altogether, or else that they had ceased to have any hostile designs against her. Meanwhile his vigorous constitution, and the skilful care of his physician, had done their work; the color returned to his cheeks, and activity to his limbs; but not so peace and joy to his breast, in which was now opened, in truth, a fresh source of anxiety and sadness. Day by day it was his grief to behold the daughter of his prince and benefactor grow paler and paler; wasted and sickly, like a blighted flower, Matilda pined away in sorrow and anguish of heart. And he who owed his life to her tender and generous care could do nothing to help her, nothing to comfort her! Neither kind attention nor pleasant words would bring a smile upon the countenance of the sorrowing maiden; sighs and tears were the only utterance of her heart; sighs and tears for her father's unhappy lot, of whom no word of tidings reached her, and for the fate of the other dear prisoners, whom now she thought to see again no more. Adolf's endeavors to mitigate her grief were incessant and fruitless; in vain he sought out for her the oldest legends and the newest toys; in vain he sang to his harp of the Lion's deeds of valor; nothing could rouse her from her depression, or dispel her dark forebodings. Gentle, indeed, she was, affectionate and grateful; but without life, without interest in aught around her. Even her favorite bird sat apart neglected, with dull, spiritless eye and drooping wing.
Some weeks had now passed since Adolf's complete recovery, when one day with sauntering steps he passed the city gates, and struck into a narrow pathway across the fields, which led him on in dreamy mood toward the little hamlet of Sevecote. The sun was fast sinking toward the horizon, and the western sky was already glowing with the tints of evening. With head bowed down, and full of bitter thought, Adolf walked on, following the path mechanically, and taking little heed whither he was going. A tear glistened from beneath his eyelids, and many a heavy sigh broke from his bosom. A thousand times had he strained his imagination to find some means of alleviating the young Matilda's lot, and as often had he fallen back into despair, so sad and hopeless did it appear. And, for himself, what wretchedness, what shame! each day, and all day long, to watch her pining away with sorrow, and sinking into an early grave, and thus to stand by the while with folded arms, powerless alike to help, to counsel, or to console! He was now at some distance from the city. Wearied more with the burden of his sadness than with the length of the way, he seated himself upon a bank, and still allowed his thoughts to drift along upon the drowsy current of his reverie. As he sat there, with his eyes bent upon the ground, he suddenly became aware that he was no longer alone— a stranger stood before him.
The unknown was dressed in a friar's frock of brown woolen, with a wide and deep hood; a long gray beard hung down upon his breast, and his bright black eyes were overhung by shaggy brows. His complexion was deeply bronzed; his features hard and strongly marked; his forehead scarred, and deeply furrowed with wrinkles. Like some wayworn traveler, he dragged his weary steps to the spot where Adolf sat, and for an instant a gleam of satisfaction seemed to light up his features, as though he recognized one whom he was glad to meet. This, however, was but for a moment; the grave and cold expression, whether real or worn as a mask, with which he had first regarded the youth, instantaneously returned.
Adolf, aware of the friar's presence only when the latter stood close before him, immediately rose from his seat, and greeted the stranger in words of courtesy. But the melancholy tenor of his thoughts had communicated a tone of sadness to his voice; and, to say the truth, he had to put some violence on himself to speak at all.
"Noble sir," responded the friar, "a long day's journey has wearied me, and the pleasantness of the spot which you have chosen tempts me to loiter a while to snatch a few moments' rest; but I pray you let me not disturb you."
So saying he threw himself upon the grass; and, motioning with his hand, invited Adolf to do the like: who thereupon, moved either by respect for the friar's sacred character, or by some secret wish to enter into conversation with him, resumed at once his former seat, and thus found himself side by side with the stranger.
Something there was in the strange priest's voice which had a familiar sound to Adolf's ear, and he endeavored to recollect when and where and under what circumstances he had heard it; but as all his efforts failed, he was at last obliged to dismiss the notion as a groundless fancy.
A short pause
