At one side of a small square or open space, in the town of Ghent, rose a large pile of very ancient architecture, called the Graevensteen, for many centuries the residence of the Counts of Flanders. Covering a wide extent of ground with its walls and towers, the building ran back almost to the banks of the Liève, over which a bridge was thrown, communicating with the castle on one side, and the suburbs on the other. In front, towards the square, and projecting far before the rest of the pile, was a massive castellated gate of stone, flanked by high towers, rising to a considerable height. The aspect of the whole was gloomy and stern; but the gay scene before the gates--the guards, the attendants, the pages in the bright-coloured and splendid costumes, particularly affected by the house of Burgundy--relieved the forbidding aspect of the dark portal, contrasting brilliantly, though strangely, with its sombre and prison-like air. At a small light wicket, in a sort of balustrade, or screen, of richly sculptured stone, which separated the palace from the rest of the square, stood two or three persons, some of them in arms, others dressed in the garb of peace; and Richard of Woodville, with his guide, approaching one who seemed to be the porter, inquired if Sir Philip de Morgan could be spoken with? "Pass in," was the brief reply:--"the door in the court, on the left of the gate;" and walking on, they took their way under the deep arch, and found in one of the towers a small low door of massive oak, studded with huge bosses of iron. No one was in attendance; and this door being partially open, was pushed back by Richard of Woodville, who bade the guide wait below, while he mounted the narrow stairs, the foot of which was seen before him. At the first story another open door presented itself, displaying a little anteroom, with two or three servants seated round a table, playing at cross and pile, a game which, by this time, had descended from kings to lacqueys. Entering at once, the young gentleman, using the French tongue, demanded to speak with Sir Philip de Morgan; but the servants continued their game with that sort of cold indifference which Englishmen of an inferior class have, in all ages, been accustomed to show towards foreigners: one of them replying, in very bad French, and hardly lifting his head from the game, "He can't be spoken with--he is busy!" adding in English to his fellow, "Play on, Wilfred." "How now, knave!" exclaimed Richard of Woodville in his own tongue; "Methinks you are saucy! Rise this moment, and inform your master that a gentleman from the King of England desires to speak with him." The man instantly started up, replying, "I beg your pardon, sir. I did not know you. I thought it was some of those Flemish hogs, come to speak about the vellum."