swarms of buzzing summer flies. Their
practised manoeuvres, their well-aimed shot
told with terrible effect; but in the place of
one slain rioter, three sprang up of his blood
to avenge his loss. But a deadly foe, a
ghastly ally of the Austrians, was at work.
Food, scarce and dear for months, was now
hardly to be obtained at any price. Desperate
efforts were being made to bring provisions
into the city, for the rioters had friends without.
Close to the city port nearest to the
Scheldt a great struggle took place. I was
there, helping the rioters, whose cause I had
adopted. We had a savage encounter with
the Austrians. Numbers fell on both sides;
I saw them lie bleeding for a moment; then
a volley of smoke obscured them; and when
it cleared away they were dead—trampled
upon or smothered, pressed down and hidden
by the freshly-wounded whom those last guns
had brought, low. And then a grey-robed
and grey-veiled figure came right across the
flashing guns, and stooped over some one,
whose life-blood was ebbing away; sometimes
it was to give him drink from cans
which they carried slung at their sides, sometimes
I saw the cross held above a dying man,
and rapid prayers were being uttered,
unheard by men in that hellish din and clangour,
but listened to by One above. I saw all this
as in a dream; the reality of that stern time
was battle and carnage. But I knew that
these grey figures, their bare feet all wet
with blood, and their faces hidden by their
veils, were the Poor Clares—sent forth now
because dire agony was abroad and imminent
danger at hand. Therefore, they left their
cloistered shelter, and came into that thick
and evil mêlée.

Close to me—driven past me by the
struggle of many fighters—came the Antwerp
burgess with the scarce-healed scar upon
his face; and in an instant more he was
thrown by the press upon the Austrian
officer Gisborne, and ere either had recovered
the shock the burgess had recognised his
opponent.

"Ha! the Englishman Gisborne! " he
cried, and threw himself upon him with
redoubled fury. He had struck him hard—
the Englishman was down; when out of
the smoke came a dark-grey figure, and
threw herself right under the uplifted flashing
sword. The burgess's arm stood arrested.
Neither Austrians nor Anversois willingly
harmed the Poor Clares.

"Leave him to me! " said a low stern
voice. " He is mine enemy—mine for many
years."

Those words were the last I heard. I
myself was struck down by a bullet. I
remember nothing more for days. When I
came to myself, I was at the extremity of
weakness, and was craving for food to recruit
my strength. My landlord sate watching
me. He, too, looked pinched and shrunken;
he had heard of my wounded state, and
sought me out. Yes! the struggle still
continued, but the famine was sore; and some,
he had heard, had died for lack of food.
The tears stood in his eyes as he spoke. But
soon he shook off his weakness, and his
natural cheerfulness returned. Father
Bernard had been to see me—no one else. (Who
should, indeed?) Father Bernard would come
back that afternoon—he had promised. But
Father Bernard never came, although I was
up and dressed and looking eagerly for him.

My landlord brought me a meal which he
had cooked himself: of what it was
composed he would not say, but it was most
excellent, and with every mouthful I seemed
to gain strength. The good man sat looking
at my evident enjoyment with a happy smile
of sympathy; but, as my appetite became
satisfied, I began to detect a certain wistfulness
in his eyes, as if craving for the food I
had so nearly devoured—for indeed at that
time I was hardly aware of the extent of the
famine. Suddenly, there was a sound of
many rushing feet past our window. My
landlord opened one of the sides of it, the
better to learn what was going on. Then we
heard a faint, cracked, tinkling bell, coming
shrill upon the air, clear and distinct from all
other sounds. "Holy Mother!" exclaimed
my landlord, " the Poor Clares!"

He snatched up the fragments of my meal,
and crammed them into my hands, bidding
me follow. Down-stairs he ran, clutching at
more food, as the women of his house eagerly
held it out to him; and in a moment we were
in the street, moving along with the great
current, all tending towards the Convent of
the Poor Clares. And still, as if piercing our
ears with its inarticulate cry, came the shrill
tinkle of the bell. In that strange crowd
were old men trembling and sobbing as they
carried their little pittance of food; women
with the tears running down their cheeks,
who had snatched up what provisions they
had in the vessels in which they stood, so
that the burden of these was in many cases
much greater than that which they contained;
children with flushed faces, grasping tight
the morsel of bitten cake or bread, in their
eagerness to carry it safe to the help of the
Poor Clares; strong men—yea, both Anversois
and Austrians—pressing onwards with
set teeth, and no word spoken; and over all,
and through all, came that sharp tinkle—that
cry for help in extremity.

We met the first torrent of people returning
with blanched and piteous faces: they
were issuing out of the convent to make way
for the offerings of others. " Haste, haste!"
said they. "A Poor Clare is dying! A Poor
Clare is dead for hunger! God forgive us,
and our city!"

We pressed on. The stream bore us along
where it would. We were carried through
refectories, bare and crumbless; into cells
over whose doors the conventual name of the
occupant was written. Thus it was that I,