"Messires, the knight who has so wondrously delivered us and all the land of Flanders, is a crusader, and wishes to remain unknown. The noblest son of Flanders bears his name,"
The knights were silent immediately; and every one was endeavoring to guess who this could be, who was at once so brave, so noble, and so lofty of stature. Those of them who remembered the meeting at the wood in the valley were not long in recognizing him; but remembering their pledge, they kept profound silence. Others there were who had no doubt that the unknown was the Count of Flanders himself; but the wish of the golden knight to remain unknown imposed on them also the obligation of secrecy.
After Robert had conversed a while with Guy in a low voice, he cast his eye over the surrounding group of knights; and then turning to Guy, with trouble depicted on his features, he said: "I do not see Adolf van Nieuwland; an agonizing doubt troubles me. Can it be that my young friend has fallen beneath the sword of the foe? That would indeed be to me an intolerable and an enduring grief: and my poor Matilda! how will she mourn her good brother!"
"He can not be dead, Robert; I am sure that I saw his green plume waving just now among the trees of the Neerlander wood. He must be in close pursuit of the foe; you saw with what irrepressible fury he threw himself upon the French in the battle. Fear nothing for him; God will not have allowed him to be slain."
"Oh Guy, are you speaking the truth? My heart is wrung that my hapless child can not taste the joy of this day without an alloy of bitterness. I pray you, my brother, let the men of Messire Borluut search the field, and see whether Adolf is among the slain. I will go to console my anxious Matilda; the presence of her father will be at least a momentary consolation."
He then greeted the knights courteously, and hastened to the Abbey of Groningen. Guy gave orders to John Borluut to disperse his men over the field, and to bring the wounded and dead knights into the tents. As they began their search, they were seen suddenly to stand still, as though arrested by some sight of horror. Now that the heat and rage of the conflict had subsided, their eyes ranged over the broad plain, where lay in hideous confusion the mangled bodies of men and horses, standards and broken armor. Here and there a wounded man stretched his hands toward them with a piteous cry, and a low wailing, more dismal than the dreariest solitude, filled the air: it was the voice of the wounded, crying, "Water! water! For God's sake, water!"
The sun poured its glowing rays upon the miserable men, and tortured them with unappeasable thirst. Flocks of ravens spread their dark wings over them; their hoarse cries were blended with the moans of the wounded; they fixed their talons in the yet quivering limbs of the dying; while troops of dogs, allured by the smell of blood, had poured forth from the city to deepen the horrors of the scene.
As the men of Ghent roamed over the field, they sought those in whose bosoms were yet some pulses of life, and brought them with care into the camp. One band was employed to fetch water from the Gaver brook; and it was a piteous sight to watch the eagerness with which the wounded seized it, and with what gratitude, with what glistening eyes, they welcomed the refreshing draft.
The soldiers had received orders to bring every knight they found killed or wounded, into the camp. They had already recovered more than half of the slain, and had traversed a considerable extent of the field of battle. As they drew near the place where the strife had been most deadly, they found the dead more numerous. They were busily removing the helmet of Messire van Machelen, when they heard close at hand a low moan, which seemed to issue from the ground. They listened, but all was still again; not one of the bodies around gave the faintest token of life. Suddenly the moan was repeated; it came from a little distance, from between t\vo prostrate horses. After many efforts, they succeeded in drawing one of the horses aside, and found the knight from whom the sound proceded. ' He was lying stretched out across the bodies, and drenched in the blood of many of the foe. His armor was indented and broken by the tread of horses; his right hand still convulsively grasped his sword, while in his left was a green veil. His pallid features bore the impress of approaching death, and he gazed on his deliverers with restless wandering looks. John Borluut recognized in a moment the unfortunate Adolf van Nieuwland. They loosened in haste the joints of his mail, raised his head gently, and moistened his lips with water. His failing voice murmured some unintelligible words, and his eyes closed as if his soul had at length taken its flight from his tortured body. The cool breeze and the refreshing water had overpowered him; and he lost for some moments all consciousness. When he at length opened his eyes, like one whose life was ebbing fast, he pressed Borluut's hand, and said—so slowly, that between each word there was a long pause:
"I am dying. You see it, Messire John; my soul can not linger much longer on earth. But bewail me not; I die contented, for our fatherland is delivered—is free—"
His voice here failed him. His breath grew shorter; his head drooped; he slowly brought the green veil to his lips, and imprinted on it a last kiss. This done, he lost all consciousness, and fell apparently lifeless in the arms of John
