"A promise from brother Paul!" exclaimed Dyram, with a mocking laugh; "what! trust the promise of a monk! You are jesting, sir knight. Was there ever promise so sacred, sworn at the altar on the body of our Lord, that they have not found excuse for breaking or means of evading? Do you judge me a fool, Sir Simeon of Roydon?" "Not so," rejoined the knight, "the danger did not strike me; but I see it now. It must be obviated, or I cannot expect you to go along with me. Yet--let me consider--methinks it were easily guarded against. Perchance she may not go; but, if she do, you can go with the party, take what number of men with you you like, and, in the confusion that must ensue, rescue your fair maiden. The gates, at this time of night, are not shut till ten; horses may be ready; and there is a castle, some five leagues off, on the road to Bruges, which I saw and cheapened three days since, as a place of residence during my exile. It is vacant now: you can bear her thither. To-morrow you can speak with father Paul yourself, and make your own terms as to leading him to the place of their meeting, if you discover it." "No," replied Ned Dyram, "no! I will not go with him. I will be at their meeting with men I can trust; so can I be sure that I shall be near at hand to guard her. I will have it under his hand, too, that I am authorized by him to go; or, perchance, they may burn me likewise." "You are too suspicious, my good friend," cried the knight, with a laugh that rang not quite so merrily as it might have done. "A monk! a monk!" answered Dyram; "one can never doubt a monk too much. I will gain the intelligence wanted, sir knight; but I leave you to prepare this brother Paul to grant me all the security I ask, or he hears not a word from me; and so, good night!--you shall have news of me soon:" and, thus saying, he left him. Simeon of Roydon bent down his head, and thought for several minutes; but at length he exclaimed, biting his lip, "He will shear down my revenge to a half--and yet, perhaps, that may be as bitter as death. To be the minion of a varlet!--'Twill be a fiercer, though a slower fire, than that of fagot and stake." CHAPTER XXX. THE HUSSITES. In a large old house, built almost entirely of wood, and situated in one of the suburbs of Ghent, far removed from all the noise and bustle of the more frequented parts of that busy town, there was a large old hall, in former years employed as a place of meeting by the linen weavers; but which, at the time I speak of, had been long disused for that purpose, when, the trade becoming more flourishing, its followers had built themselves a more splendid structure in the heart of the city.