An inexpressibly sweet smile and a fervent kiss were Matilda's answer. But on a sudden a thought of pain seemed to cross her mind; for her countenance was overspread with gloom, and she bent her eyes on the ground, like one who is overcome by shame.
Robert looked at her inquiringly, and asked:
"Matilda, my child, why is your countenance so suddenly overcast with sadness?"
The maiden only half raised her eyes, and answered with a low voice:
"But—my father—you say nothing of Adolf why did he not come with you?"
There was a slight pause before Robert replied. He discerned that, unknown to herself, a profound feeling was slumbering in Matilda's heart; therefore it was not without design he answered her thus:
"Adolf is detained by his duty, my child; fugitives are scattered over the plain, and I believe he is pursuing them. I may say to you, Matilda, that our friend Adolf is the most valiant and the most noble knight I know. Never have I seen more manliness and intrepidity. Twice he saved the life of my brother Guy; beneath the banner-royal of France the enemy fell in numbers beneath his sword; all the knights are repeating his praises, and ascribe to him a large share in the deliverance of Flanders."
While Robert was uttering these words, he kept his eye fixed on his daughter, and scrutinized every emotion that flitted across her expressive features. He read therein a mingled pride and rapture, and had no further doubt that his conjecture was well founded. Maria, the while, stood with her eyes fixed on Robert, and drank in with eager joy the praises which he bestowed so lavishly on her brother.
While Matilda was gazing on her father in a transport of bliss, there was heard suddenly a confused noise of voices in the court of the monastery. After a few moments all was again still; then the door of the cell opened, and Guy entered slowly, and with a disturbed countenance; he came near to his brother, and said:
“A great disaster has befallen us, my brother, in the loss of one who is most dear to us all; the men of Ghent found him on the field of battle, lying under a heap of slain, and they have brought him here into the monastery. His life trembles on his lips, and I think the hour of his death can not be very distant. He anxiously begs to see you once more ere he quits this world; wherefore I pray you, my brother, grant him this last favor." Then, turning to Maria, he continued: "He desires to see you also, noble maiden."
One cry of bitter anguish broke from the hearts of both maidens. Matilda fell lifeless into her father's arms; and Maria flew to the door, and rushed from the chamber in an agony of despair. Their cries brought two nuns into the cell, who took charge of the unhappy Matilda; her father stoopea and kissed her, and turned to visit the dying Adolf; when the maiden, perceiving his intention, tore herself from the arms of the nuns, and clinging to her father, cried:
"Let me go with you, my father; let me see him once more! Woe, woe is me! what a sharp sword pierces my heart! My father, I shall die with him; I feel already the approach of death. I must see him: come, come speedily; he is dying! Oh, Adolf! Adolf!"
Robert gazed on his daughter with tender compassion; he could not doubt now the existence of that secret feeling which had slowly and quietly taken root in his daughter's heart. The discovery gave him no pain, caused him no displeasure; unable to comfort her with words, he pressed her to his heart. But Matilda disengaged herself from these tender bonds, and drew Robert toward the door, crying:
"Oh, my father, have pity on me! Come, that I may once more hear the voice of my good brother, that his eyes may look on me once more before he dies."
She knelt down at his feet, and continued, amid burning tears:
"I implore you, do not reject my petition; hear me; grant it, my lord and my father."
Robert would have preferred leaving his daughter in the care of the nuns; for he feared, with reason, that the sight of the dying knight would completely overwhelm her; yet he could not deny her urgent prayers; he took her, therefore, by the hand, and said:
"Be it so, my daughter; go with me, and visit the unfortunate Adolf. But, I pray you, disturb him not by your grief; think that God has this day bestowed on us a great mercy, and that He may be justly provoked to anger by your despair."
Ere these words were ended they had left the cell. Adolf had been brought into the refectory of the monastery, and laid carefully on a feather-bed upon the floor. A priest, well skilled in the healing art, had examined him with care, and found no open wound; long blue stripes indicated the blows he had received, and in many places were large bruises and contusions. He was bled; and then his body was carefully washed, and a restorative balsam applied. Through the care of the skilful priest he had recovered a measure of strength: but yet he seemed at the point of death, although his eyes were no longer so dull and lustreless. Around his bed stood many knights in deep silence, mourning for their friend. John van Renesse, Arnold van Oudenarde, and Peter Deconinck assisted the priest in his operations; William van Gulick, John Borluut, and Baldwin van Papenrode stood at the left hand of the couch, while Guy, Jan Breydel,
