"But he left the city after the show was over. I saw him myself, as with all his knights and men-at-arms, and with several ladies----" "Ladies, say you?" "Yes, in horse-litters; he passed out by the gate of St. James." "For where?" asked Gray, starting up. "I know not." "Do none in Antwerp know?" asked Gray, impatiently. "Some say for Mechlin--others for Breda." "Get me a fleet horse, Maître Baudoin--I can pay you well--I must see this bishop--" "Horses?--do you mean to ride to _both_ places at once?" "No--to the nearest first." "Vain, vain, messire," said the hosteller, shrugging his shoulders, "be assured that he will not tell you." "Not if I implore him to do so?" "Not if you dashed out your brains--_morbleu_!" "Where did the lady go after the procession dispersed?" "Back to the cathedral--it is the custom." "Oh! she may be there yet." "_Ouf_, messire! would you have a pretty girl to sleep all night among these cold marble knights and dead bishops? She has left it, of course; but amid the thousands who have left or are leaving the city, and the great trains of the prince of Ravenstein, the counts of Nassau, Bommel, and others, now departing by all our gates and bridges, the task of tracing and discovering her would be no sinecure." Sir Patrick stamped his right foot with vexation. "If I had your devil of a bishop on Scottish ground, I would soon wrench the secret out of him." "Perhaps so, messire; but he has at Mechlin an ugly wheel whereon folks are sometimes broken alive; and that is not pleasant. Is messire _sure_ that he recognized the lady?" "Sure, Maître Baudoin, as that I now speak to you. Oh! I would know that sweet face among ten thousand." "Sweet--hum;" the little Frenchman began to get quite interested; "is she a countrywoman of messire?" "Yes." "A sister?" persisted the hosteller, who burned with curiosity. "No--no." "Perhaps she is the mother of messire?" "Prater, how thou talkest! she is my best beloved--my betrothed wife!" said Gray, with enthusiasm. "_Diable! Bon Dieu!_" exclaimed Baudoin, making a pirouette. "Messire must not despair." "I do not despair, Maître Baudoin; but I am sorely bewildered," said poor Gray, passing a hand across his scarred forehead. "Messire, with your permission, I shall tell you a little story." "Say on, my friend." "Have you perceived near the church of Jesus--just about thirty paces from it--a well, covered with curious ironwork?" "Yes; what about it?" "The branches from which the pulley hangs are rich with foliaged work of iron, and are deemed a miracle of skill. They were the _chef d'oeuvre_ of a famous young smith of Antwerp who dearly loved the daughter of a great painter, and desired greatly to win his esteem; so he lavished all the energies of his soul, and all the cunning of his hands, all his skill and experience, upon that piece of ironwork; but when it was finished, monsieur the painter viewed it coldly, and said, crustily,