The Cloister and the Hearth: A Tale of the Middle Ages. Charles Reade Reade

they growled over this small bone of contention so zealously, that they did not see Catherine and her daughter had thrown their aprons over their heads, and were rocking to and fro in deep distress. The next moment Elias came in from the shop, and stood aghast. Catherine, though her face was covered, knew his footstep.

      "That is my poor man," she sobbed. "Tell him, good Peter Buyskens, for I have not the courage."

      Elias turned pale. The presence of the burgomaster in his house, after so many years of coolness, coupled with his wife's and daughter's distress, made him fear some heavy misfortune.

      "Richart! Jacob!" he gasped.

      "No! no!" said the burgomaster; "it is nearer home, and nobody is dead or dying, old friend."

      "God bless you, burgomaster! Ah! something is gone off my breast that was like to choke me. Now, what is the matter?"

      Ghysbrecht then told him all that he told the women, and showed the picture in evidence.

      "Is that all?" said Eli, profoundly relieved. "What are ye roaring and bellowing for? It is vexing, it is angering, but it is not like death nor even sickness. Boys will be boys. He will outgrow that disease: 'tis but skin deep."

      But when Ghysbrecht told him that Margaret was a girl of good character; that it was not to be supposed she would be so intimate if marriage had not been spoken of between them, his brow darkened.

      "Marriage? that shall never be," said he, sternly. "I'll stay that, ay, by force if need be, as I would his hand lifted to cut his throat. I'd do what old John Koestein did t'other day."

      "And what is that, in Heaven's name?" asked the mother, suddenly removing her apron.

      It was the burgomaster who replied:

      "He made me shut young Albert Koestein up in the prison of the Stadthouse till he knocked under: it was not long. Forty-eight hours, all alone, on bread and water, cooled his hot stomach. 'Tell my father I am his humble servant,' says he, 'and let me into the sun once more—the sun is worth all the wenches in the world.'"

      "Oh the cruelty of men!" sighed Catherine.

      "As to that, the burgomaster has no choice: it is the law. And if a father says, 'Burgomaster, lock up my son,' he must do it. A fine thing it would be if a father might not lock up his own son."

      "Well, well! it won't come to that with me and my son. He never disobeyed me in his life: he never shall. Where is he? It is past supper-time. Where is he, Kate?"

      "Alas, I know not, father."

      "I know," said Ghysbrecht; "he is at Sevenbergen. My servant met him on the road."

      Supper passed in gloomy silence. Evening descended—no Gerard: eight o'clock came—no Gerard. Then the father sent all to bed except Catherine.

      "You and I will walk abroad, wife, and talk over this new care."

      "Abroad, my man, at this time? Whither?"

      "Why on the road to Sevenbergen."

      "Oh no, no hasty words, father. Poor Gerard! he never vexed you before."

      "Fear me not. But it must end; and I am not one that trusts to-morrow with to-day's work."

      The old pair walked hand in hand; for strange as it may appear to some of my readers, the use of the elbow to couples walking was not discovered in Europe till centuries after this. They sauntered on a long time in silence. The night was clear and balmy. Such nights, calm and silent, recall the past from the dead.

      "It is a many years since we walked so late, my man," said Catherine, softly.

      "Ay, sweetheart, more than we shall see again (Is he never coming, I wonder?")

      "Not since our courting days, Eli."

      "No. Ay, you were a buxom lass then."

      "And you were a comely lad, as ever a girl's eye stole a look at. I do suppose Gerard is with her now, as you used to be with me. Nature is strong, and the same in all our generations."

      "Nay, I hope he has left her by now, confound her, or we shall be here all night."

      "Eli!"

      "Well, Kate?"

      "I have been happy with you sweetheart, for all our rubs—much happier, I trow, than if I had—been—a—a—nun. You won't speak harshly to the poor child? One can be firm without being harsh."

      "Surely."

      "Have you been happy with me, my poor Eli?"

      "Why, you know I have. Friends I have known, but none like thee. Buss me, wife!"

      "A heart to share joy and grief with is a great comfort to man or woman. Isn't it, Eli?"

      "It is so, my lass."

      'It doth joy double, And halveth trouble,'

      runs the byword. And so I have found it, sweetheart. Ah! here comes the young fool."

      Catherine trembled and held her husband's hand tight. The moon was bright, but they were in the shadow of some trees, and their son did not see them. He came singing in the moonlight, and his face shining.

CHAPTER VIII

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      WHILE the burgomaster was exposing Gerard at Tergou, Margaret had a trouble of her own at Sevenbergen. It was a housewife's distress, but deeper than we can well conceive. She came to Martin Wittenhaagen, the old soldier, with tears in her eyes.

      "Martin, there's nothing in the house, and Gerard is coming, and he is so thoughtless. He forgets to sup at home. When he gives over work then he runs to me straight, poor soul: and often, he comes quite faint. And to think I have nothing to set before my servant that loves me so dear."

      Martin scratched his head. "What can I do?"

      "It is Thursday: it is your day to shoot—sooth to say, I counted on you to-day."

      "Nay," said the soldier, "I may not shoot when the duke or his friends are at the chace; read else. I am no scholar." And he took out of his pouch a parchment with a grand seal. It purported to be a stipend and a licence given by Philip Duke of Burgundy to Martin Wittenhaagen, one of his archers, in return for services in the wars, and for a wound received at the duke's side. The stipend was four marks yearly to be paid by the Duke's almoner and the licence was to shoot three arrows once a week, viz., on Thursday, and no other day, in any of the Duke's forests in Holland, at any game but a seven-year-old buck or a doe carrying fawn, proviso, that the duke should not be hunting on that day, or any of his friends. In this case Martin was not to go and disturb the woods on peril of his salary, and his head, and a fine of a penny.

      Margaret sighed and was silent.

      "Come, cheer up, mistress," said he, "for your sake I'll peril my carcass; I have done that for many a one that was not worth your forefinger. It is no such mighty risk either. I'll but step into the skirts of the forest, here. It is odds but they drive a hare or a fawn within reach of my arrow."

      "Well, if I let you go you must promise me not to go far, and not to be seen; far better Gerard went supperless than ill should come to you, faithful Martin."

      The required promise given, Martin took his bow and three arrows, and stole cautiously into the wood: it was scarce a furlong distant. The horns were heard faintly in the distance, and all the game was afoot. "Come," thought Martin, "I shall soon fill the pot and no one be the wiser." He took his stand behind a thick oak that commanded a view of an open glade, and strung his bow, a truly formidable weapon. It was of English yew, six feet two inches high, and thick in proportion: and Martin, broad chested, with arms all iron and cord, and used to the bow from infancy, could draw a three-foot arrow to the head, and, when it flew, the eye could scarce