BLACK MAGIC. Bowen Marjorie

them in silence.

      “You must needs wait till the supper is prepared,” he said, and with that placed himself on the stool by the pot, and, while he stirred it with an iron spoon, openly studied the two men.

      Balthasar of Courtrai was gorgeous; his age might be perhaps twenty-six or seven; he was of a large make, florid in the face with a high red colour and blunt features; his brows were straight and over fair, his eyes deep blue and expressionless; his heavy yellow hair was cut low on his forehead and fell straightly on to his neck.

      He wore a flat orange hat, slashed and cut, fastened by purple cords to the shoulder of a gold doublet that opened on a shirt of fine lawn; his sleeves were enormous, fantastic, puffed and gathered; round his waist was a linked belt into which were thrust numerous daggers and a short sword.

      His breeches, of a most vivid blue, were beruffled with knots and tassels, his riding-boots, that came to his knees, stained with the summer dust, showed a small foot decorated with gilt spurs. He sat with one hand on his hip, and in the other held his leathern gloves.

      Such the picture, Master Dirk Renswoude, considering him coldly, formed of Balthasar of Courtrai.

      His companion was younger; dressed sombrely in black and violet, but as well-looking as a man may be; he was neither dark nor fair, but of a clear brown hue, and his eyes were hazel, swift and brilliant; his mouth was set smilingly, yet the whole face expressed reserve and some disdain; he had laid his hat on the floor beside him, and with an interested glance was observing the room.

      But Balthasar of Courtrai returned Master Dirk Renswoude’s steady gaze.

      “You have heard of me?” he said suddenly.

      “Yes,” was the instant answer.

      “Then, belike, you know what I am here for?”

      “No,” said Master Dirk, frowning.

      Balthasar glanced at his companion, who gave no heed to either of them, but stared at the half-gilded devil with interest and some wonder; seeing this, Balthasar answered for himself, in a manner half defiant and wholly arrogant.

      “My father is Margrave of East Flanders, and the Emperor knighted me when I was fifteen. Now I am tired of Courtrai, of the castle, of my father. I have taken the road.”

      Master Dirk lifted the iron pot from the fire to the hearth.

      “The road to — where?” he asked.

      Balthasar made a large gesture with his right hand.

      “To Cologne, perhaps to Rome, to Constantinople . . . to Turkey or Hungary.”

      “Knight errant,” said Master Dirk.

      Balthasar tossed his fine head.

      “By the Rood, no. I have ambitions.”

      Master Dirk laughed.

      “And your friend?” he asked.

      “A wandering scholar,” smiled Balthasar. “Also weary of the town of Courtrai. He dreams of fame.”

      Theirry looked round at this.

      “I am going to the Universities,” he said quietly. “To Paris, Basle, Padua — you have heard of them?”

      The youth’s cloudy eyes gleamed.

      “Ah, I have heard of them,” he replied upon a quick breath.

      “I have a great desire for learning,” said Theirry.

      Balthasar made an impatient movement that shook the tassels and ribbons on his sleeves. “God help us, yes! And I for other things.”

      Master Dirk was moving about setting the supper. He placed the little clay knights on the window-sill, and flung, without any ado, drawings, paints and brushes on to the floor.

      Silence fell on them; the young host’s bearing did not encourage comment, and the atmosphere of the room was languid and remote, not conducive to talk.

      Master Dirk, composed and aloof, opened a press in the wall, and took thence a fine cloth that he laid smoothly on the rough table; then he set on it earthenware dishes and plates, drinking-glasses painted in bright colours, and forks with agate handles.

      They were well served for food, even though it might not be the princely fare the Margrave’s son was used to; honey in a silver jar, shining apples lying among their leaves, wheaten cakes in a plaited basket, grapes on a gold salver, lettuces and radishes fragrantly wet; these Master Dirk brought from the press and set on the table. Then he helped his guests to meat, and Balthasar spoke.

      “You live strangely here — so much alone.”

      “I have no desire for company. I work and take pleasure in it. They buy my work, pictures, carvings, sculptures for churches — very readily.”

      “You are a good craftsman,” said Theirry. “Who taught you?”

      “Old Master Lukas, born of Ghent, and taught in Italy. When he died he left me this house and all it holds.”

      Again their speech sank into silence; Balthasar ate heavily, but with elegance; Dirk, seated next the window, rested his chin on his palm and stared out at the bright yet fading blue of the sky, at the row of closed windows opposite, and the daisies waving round the broken fountain; he ate very little. Theirry, placed opposite, was of the same mind and, paying little heed to Balthasar, who seemed not to interest him in the least, kept curious eyes on Dirk’s strange, grave face.

      After a while the Margrave’s son asked shamelessly for wine, and the youth rose languidly and brought it; tall bottles, white, red and yellow in wicker cases, and an amber-hued beer such as the peasants drank.

      The placing of these before Balthasar seemed to rouse him from his apathy.

      “Why have you come here?” he demanded.

      Balthasar laughed easily.

      “I am married,” he said as a prelude, and lifted his glass in a large, well-made hand. At that Master Dirk frowned.

      “So are many men.”

      Balthasar surveyed the tilting wine through half-closed eyes.

      “It is about my wife, Master, that I am here now.”

      Dirk Renswoude leant forward in his chair.

      “I know of your wife.”

      “Tell me of her,” said Balthasar of Courtrai. “I have come here for that.”

      Dirk slightly smiled.

      “Should I know more than you?”

      The Margrave’s son flushed.

      “What you do know? — tell me.”

      Dirk’s smile deepened.

      “She was one Ursula, daughter of the Lord of Rooselaare, she was sent to the convent of the White Sisters in this town.”

      “So you know it all,” said Balthasar. “Well, what else?”

      “What else? I must tell you a familiar tale.”

      “Certes, more so to you than to me.”

      “Then, since you wish it, here is your story, sir.”

      Dirk spoke in an indifferent voice well suited to the peace of the chamber; he looked at neither of his listeners, but always out of the window.

      “She was educated for a nun and, I think, desired to become one of the Order of the White Sisters. But when she was fifteen her brother died and she became her father’s heiress. So many entered the lists for her hand — they contracted her to you.”

      Balthasar pulled at the orange tassels on his sleeve.

      “Without my wish or consent,” he said.

      The young man took no heed.