"Time never fails to soften the memory of the most acute sorrow, and in the convent to which I had fled for refuge from my own thoughts, the soothing consolations of the sisterhood, the calm, the pious and blameless tenor of their way, charmed me as much as their holy meekness of spirit subdued my bitter regrets. After a time I tasted the sweets of the most perfect contentment, if not of happiness. In the duties of religion, of industry and charity, I soon learned to forget Clermistonlee, or to remember him only in my prayers--to forget that I had been a wife, to forget that I had been--oh, no! not a mother--never could I forget that." "Villain that he is! and with the consciousness of your Ladyship's existence, he has, since he was ennobled, wooed many another to be his bride; but Heaven's hand or his own vices have always foiled him." The eyes of the recluse sparkled beneath her veil; but folding her white hands meekly on her bosom, she said with exceeding gentleness-- "What have I to do with it now?--besides, youth, I am sure he believes me dead, for some of the Scottish Archers told him so--and dead I am to him and to the world." "It is a very sad history, madam," "But God has comforted me." Her tears fell fast nevertheless, and a long pause ensued. Walter felt himself moved to tears, and he often sighed deeply, yet knew not why. The sound of a trumpet roused him; it seemed close bye, and came in varying cadence on the passing wind. "'Tis the trumpet of a Dutch patrole. I must begone, lady, or remain only to die. Farewell; a thousand blessings on you and a thousand more--for we shall never meet again;" and half kneeling he kissed her hand, and, slipping from the cottage, favoured by the darkened moon, hurried away towards the fires of Luxembourg's camp, just as a party of Dutch Ruyters led by the boor halted at the cottage door. * * * * * With fifty thousand men the Mareschal Duke of Luxembourg was posted at Courtray on the Lys; while William, with twice that number, lay at Grammont, inactive, phlegmatic, and afraid to attack him; an inertness which increased the growing ill-humour of Britain against him. Without a dinner and without a sou, abandoned to solitude and dejection, Walter Fenton one evening paced slowly to and fro on the ramparts of Courtray, watching the bright sunset as it lingered long on the level scenery. A page approached, who acquainted him that Monseigneur le Mareschal required his presence in the citadel, whither he immediately repaired, and found the great Henri of Luxembourg, the youthful Dukes of Chartres and Vendome, with other chevaliers of distinction, carousing after a sumptuous repast. As he entered, De Chartres was singing the merry old ditty of _Jean de Nivelle_, while the rest chorused.