"Sir Adolf," now proceeded Diederik, "if you would secure success to your generous enterprise, we shall do well to start without delay, lest perchance, should an enemy or an unfaithful servant see you in your present guise, you not only risk your life, but risk it fruitlessly."
The reasonableness of this caution was obvious, and the young knight immediately assented. "Farewell, noble lady!" he exclaimed, "farewellI Think sometimes of your servant Adolf."
But what words can describe the maiden's emotion as she heard these few and simple words? Hitherto she had looked only at the bright side of Adolf's chivalrous undertaking; she was once again to behold her beloved father! But now at once the thought flashed upon her, that this happiness was to be purchased by the absence, perhaps the loss of her good brother—for so she called the knight. A pang shot through her heart; but she was sufficiently mistress of herself to suppress her tears; and loosening the green veil, which formed a portion of her headdress:
"Take this," she said, "from the hands of your grateful sister; let it serve to remind you of her who will never forget your noble deed; it is my own favorite color."
The knight received the pledge on bended knee, and with a look which bespoke his thanks, he pressed it to his lips.
"Lady," he said, "so great a reward exceeds my poor deserts; but the day may come when it shall be given me to pour out my blood for the House of Flanders, and to show myself not unworthy of your gracious favor."
"Come, a truce to compliments," cried Diederik; "it is time we were gone."
With pain the youth and maiden heard the summons. Each spoke but one word more:
"Farewell, Matilda!"
"Farewell, Adolf!"
The two knights hurried away; and passing out into the courtyard, mounted with all despatch. A few moments later and the streets of Bruges resounded with the hasty tramp of two horses, the last echo of which was heard under the gate toward Ghent.
CHAPTER III
In the year 1280 a terrible conflagration had caused the ruin of the old town hall in the marketplace of Bruges; the wooden tower with which it was surrounded had perished in the flames; and all the charters and muniments of the city together with it. But in the lower part of the building some massive walls had resisted the general destruction, and some few chambers were still left standing, which were now used as a guardhouse. At present these half-ruined apartments were the chosen rendezvous of the French garrison; and there they whiled away their time in play and revelry.
A few days after Adolf of Nieuwland's departure, eight of these foreign mercenaries found themselves together in one of the innermost recesses of the ruin. A large lamp of coarse earthenware shed its yellow rays upon their swarthy faces, while a thick smoke curled upward from its flame, and hung sullenly in the groinings of the vault. The walls still retained traces of decorative painting; an image of Our Lady, with the hands broken ofif, and the features defaced by time or violence, stood at one end of the chamber. At a heavy oaken table sat four soldiers, intent upon the dice with which they were playing; others stood by, looking on and following with interest the chances of the game. It was evident, however, that some other game was afoot than that in which these men were for the moment engaged; for, with helmets upon their heads and swords at their belts, they had all the appearance of being prepared for action.
Soon one of the players rose from the table, at the same time angrily dashing down the dice upon it. "That old Breton's hands are not clean!" he exclaimed; "else how should I lose fifty times running? A plague on the dice! I'll have done with them."
"He is afraid to go on," cried the winner, with a provoking air of triumph. "What the fiend, Jehan! surely you are never cleaned out yet, man! Is that the fashion in which you face the enemy?"
"Try once more, Jehan," said another; "the luck can't go one way forever."
The soldier addressed as Jehan stood for some moments as if in doubt whether to try his luck again or not. At last, passing his hand within his shirt of mail, he drew from under it his last reserve, a necklace of fine pearls with richly wrought clasps of gold.
"There," he exclaimed, holding it out so that all might see, "I will stake these pearls against what you have won from me to-night. It is as fair a necklace as ever shone upon the neck of a Flemish lady! If I lose this, I have not a stiver left of the whole booty."
The Breton took the jewel into his hand, and scanned it curiously. "Well, here goes," he cried; "how many throws?"
"Two," replied Jehan; "you throw first."
The necklace lay upon the table, and over against it a heap of gold pieces. All eyes were fixed on the dice as they rolled, while the hearts of the players beat high with excitement. At the first throw, the fickle dame Fortune seemed to be taking Jehan into favor again, for he threw ten, and his adversary but five. But, while preparing to throw again, and full of hope that he might this time retrieve his losses, he suddenly observed that the Breton secretly put the dice to his mouth, and moistened one side of them. He was now immediately convinced that it was not ill luck, but foul play, that had hitherto made him the loser. He took no notice, however, merely calling to his adversary:
"Come, why don't you throw? you are afraid
