The French host was, indeed, destroyed; but it was certain that Philip the Fair would send fresh and more numerous troops to Flanders to avenge the insult put upon him. The greater part of the citizens thought little about this terrible certainty; it was enough for them to enjoy the freedom and the gladness of the moment. But Deconinck did not share the common joy; he had almost forgotten the present in his schemes for averting future disaster. He well knew that the exhilaration and courage of a people vanish at the approach of danger, and endeavored by every means in his power to keep alive a warlike spirit in the city. Every Guildsman was provided with a *'good-day" or other weapon, the banners were put in order, and the command issued that all should be ready for battle at a moment's notice. The Guild of Masons began to repair and strengthen the fortifications, and the Smiths were forbidden to forge anything but weapons for the people. The tolls were again imposed, and the city dues collected. By these wise regulations, Deconinck made every thought, every effort of the citizens converge to one object and one aim; and so he warded off from his beloved city the manifold evils which a great insurrection, how noble soever its cause, is apt to inflict on a people. All was as orderly as if the new government had existed for years.
Immediately after the victory, and while the people were drinking in every street the wine of gladness, Deconinck had sent a messenger to the encampment at Damme, to recall the remaining Guildsmen, with the women and children, into the city. Matilda had come with them, and had been offered a magnificent dwelling in the Princes' Court; but she preferred the house of Nieuwland, in which she had passed so many hours of sorrow, and with which all her dreams were associated. She found in the excellent sister of Adolf a tender and affectionate friend, into whose heart she could pour all the love and all the grief which overflowed her own. It is, indeed, a consolation for us, when our hearts are pierced with mortal anguish, to find a soul which can understand our sufferings because itself has suffered: a soul that loves those whom we love, and whose wailings are the echo of our own. So two tender saplings interweave their tendrils, and, supported by this mutual embrace, defy the devastating hurricane which bows their frail heads. To us mourning and sorrow are a hurricane, whose icy breath chills the life and wastes the fire of our souls, and brings down our head untimely to the grave, as though each year of unhappiness were reckoned as two.
The sun was rising in glowing splendor for the fourth time over the free city of Bruges. Matilda was sitting in the same room of Adolf von Nieuwland's house which she had formerly occupied. Her faithful bird, the beloved falcon, accompanied her no more—it was dead. Sickness and sorrow had spread their paleness over the soft features of the maiden; her eyes were dimmed, her cheek had lost its fulness, and her whole appearance showed that a deep grief lay, like a gnawing worm, in her heart.
Those who are visited with long and bitter suffering take pleasure in sad and gloomy dreams; and, as if the reality were not painful enough, fashion to themselves phantoms, which appal them yet more: and thus was it with the hapless maiden. She fancied that the secret of her father's liberation had been discovered; she saw in imagination the murderers, bribed by Queen Joanna, mingling poison with his scanty food; and then she would shudder convulsively, and tears of agony would stream down her cheeks. Adolf was dead to her: he had expiated, with his life, his love and his magnanimity. These heartrending fancies passed ever and anew before Matilda's soul, and ceaselessly tortured the poor maiden.
At this moment her friend Maria entered her room. The smile which passed over Matilda's features as she greeted her friend was like the smile which, after a death of anguish, lingers a while on the face of the departed; it expressed more of pain and profound sorrow than the bitterest wailing could have done. She looked at Adolf's sister, and said:
"Oh! give me some comfort, some alleviation of my suffering!"
Maria drew near to the unhappy girl, and pressed her hand in tender sympathy. Her voice took its softest tone, and sank like music into the soul of the sufferer, as she said:
"Your tears flow in stillness, your heart is breaking with anguish and despair; and there is nothing, nothing to lighten your heavy burden! Alas! you are indeed unhappy."
"Unhappy! say you, my friend? Oh, yes! There is a feeling in my heart which fills it to bursting. Can you imagine what hideous fancies are ever floating before my eyes? and can you understand why my tears unceasingly flow? I have seen my father die of poison; I have heard the voice as of one dying—a voice that said, 'Farewell, my child; thou whom I have loved.'"
"I pray you, maiden," interposed Maria, "banish these gloomy shadows of your fancy. You rend my heart with sorrow. Your father is yet alive. You sin grievously in abandoning yourself thus to despair. Forgive me these words of severity."
Matilda seized
