the bishop delivered to him a little MS. full of exorcisms, and said: “Take this, Gerard, and have power to lay hands on the possessed, whether baptised or catechumens!” and he took it reverently, and went home invested by the church with power to cast out demons.
Returning home from the church, he was met by little Kate on her crutches.
“Oh, Gerard! who, think you, has been at our house seeking you?—the Burgomaster himself.”
Gerard started, and changed colour.
“Ghysbrecht Van Swieten? What would he with me?”
“Nay, Gerard, I know not. But he was urgent to see you. You are to go to his house on the instant.”
“Well, he is the Burgomaster: I must go: but it likes me not. Kate, I have seen him cast such a look on me as no friend casts. No matter; such looks forewarn the wise. Besides, he knows—”
“Knows what, Gerard?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Kate, I’ll go.”
And he went to Ghysbrecht Van Swieten’s house.
CHAPTER VII.
Ghysbrecht van Swieten was an artful man. He opened on the novice with something quite wide of the mark he was really aiming at. “The town records,” said he, “are crabbedly written, and the ink rusty with age.” He offered Gerard the honour of transcribing them fair.
Gerard inquired what he was to be paid.
Ghysbrecht offered a sum that would have just purchased the pens, ink, and parchment.
“But, Burgomaster, my labour? Here is a year’s work.”
“Your labour! Call you marking parchment labour? Little sweat goes to that, I trow.”
“’Tis labour, and skilled labour to boot: and that is better paid in all crafts than rude labour, sweat or no sweat. Besides, there’s my time.”
“Your time? Why what is time to you, at two-and-twenty?” Then fixing his eyes keenly on Gerard, to mark the effect of his words, he said:
“Say, rather, you are idle grown. You are in love. Your body is with those chanting monks, but your heart is with Peter Brandt and his red-haired girl.”
“I know no Peter Brandt.”
This denial confirmed Ghysbrecht’s suspicion that the caster out of demons was playing a deep game.
“Ye lie!” he shouted. “Did I not find you at her elbow, on the road to Rotterdam?”
“Ah!”
“Ah. And you were seen at Sevenbergen but t’othor day.”
“Was I?”
“Ay; and at Peter’s house.”
“At Sevenbergen?”
“Ay, at Sevenbergen.”
Now, this was what in modern days is called a draw. It was a guess, put boldly forth as fact, to elicit by the young man’s answer whether he had been there lately or not.
The result of the artifice surprised the crafty one. Gerard started up in a strange state of nervous excitement.
“Burgomaster,” said he, with trembling voice, “I have not been at Sevenbergen this three years, and I know not the name of those you saw me with, nor where they dwelt; but, as my time is precious, though you value it not, give you good day.” And he darted out, with his eyes sparkling.
Ghysbrecht started up in huge ire; but he sank into his chair again.
“He fears me not. He knows something, if not all.”
Then he called hastily to his trusty servant, and almost dragged him to a window.
“See you yon man?” he cried. “Haste! Follow him! But let him not see you. He is young, but old in craft. Keep him in sight all day. Let me know whither he goes, and what he does.”
It was night when the servant returned.
“Well! well!” cried Van Swieten, eagerly.
“Master, the young man went from you to Sevenbergen.”
Ghysbrecht groaned.
“To the house of Peter the Magician.”
CHAPTER. VIII.
“Look into your own heart and write!” said Herr Cant; and earth’s cuckoos echoed the cry. Look into the Rhine where it is deepest, and the Thames where it is thickest, and paint the bottom. Lower a bucket into a well of self-deception, and what comes up must be immortal truth, musn’t it? Now, in the first place no son of Adam ever reads his own heart at all, except by the habit acquired and the light gained from some years’ perusal of other hearts; and even then, with his acquired sagacity and reflected light, he can but spell and decipher his own heart, not read it fluently. Gerard was so young and green that he needed no philosopherling to lead him into shallow water. Half way to Sevenbergen he looked into his own heart, and asked it why he was going to Sevenbergen. His heart replied without a moment’s hesitation. We are going out of mere curiosity, to know why she jilted us, and to show her it has not broken our hearts, and that we are quite content with our honours and our benefice in prospectu, and don’t want her or any of her fickle sex.
He soon found out Peter Brandt’s cottage; and there sat a girl in the doorway, plying her needle, and a stalwart figure leaned on a long bow and talked to her. Gerard felt an unaccountable pang at the sight of him. However, the man turned out to be past fifty years of age, an old soldier, whom Gerard remembered to have seen shoot at the butts with admirable force and skill. Another minute and the youth stood before them. Margaret looked up and dropped her work, and uttered a faint cry, and was white and red by turns. But these signs of emotion were swiftly dismissed, and she turned far more chill