But, a day or two afterwards, he told me that, on hearing my name, Mr.
Gisborne had declined responding to any advances on my part, saying he
had adjured his country, and hated his countrymen. Probably he recollected my name in connection with that of his daughter
Lucy. Anyhow, it was clear enough that I had no chance of making his
acquaintance. Father Bernard confirmed me in my suspicions of the hidden
fermentation, for some coming evil, working among the “blouses” of
Antwerp, and he would fain have had me depart from out the city; but I
rather craved the excitement of danger, and stubbornly refused to leave. One day, when I was walking with him in the Place Verte, he bowed to an
Austrian officer, who was crossing towards the cathedral. “That is Mr. Gisborne,” said he, as soon as the gentleman was past. I turned to look at the tall, slight figure of the officer. He carried
himself in a stately manner, although he was past middle age, and from
his years might have had some excuse for a slight stoop. As I looked at
the man, he turned round, his eyes met mine, and I saw his face. Deeply
lined, sallow, and scathed was that countenance; scarred by passion as
well as by the fortunes of war. ’Twas but a moment our eyes met. We
each turned round, and went on our separate way. But his whole appearance was not one to be easily forgotten; the thorough
appointment of the dress, and evident thought bestowed on it, made but an
incongruous whole with the dark, gloomy expression of his countenance. Because he was Lucy’s father, I sought instinctively to meet him
everywhere. At last he must have become aware of my pertinacity, for he
gave me a haughty scowl whenever I passed him. In one of these
encounters, however, I chanced to be of some service to him. He was
turning the corner of a street, and came suddenly on one of the groups of
discontented Flemings of whom I have spoken. Some words were exchanged,
when my gentleman out with his sword, and with a slight but skilful cut
drew blood from one of those who had insulted him, as he fancied, though
I was too far off to hear the words. They would all have fallen upon him
had I not rushed forwards and raised the cry, then well known in Antwerp,
of rally, to the Austrian soldiers who were perpetually patrolling the
streets, and who came in numbers to the rescue. I think that neither Mr.
Gisborne nor the mutinous group of plebeians owed me much gratitude for
my interference. He had planted himself against a wall, in a skilful
attitude of fence, ready with his bright glancing rapier to do battle
with all the heavy, fierce, unarmed men, some six or seven in number. But when his own soldiers came up, he sheathed his sword; and, giving
some careless word of command, sent them away again, and continued his
saunter all alone down the street, the workmen snarling in his rear, and
more than half-inclined to fall on me for my cry for rescue. I cared not
if they did, my life seemed so dreary a burden just then; and, perhaps,
it was this daring loitering among them that prevented their attacking
me. Instead, they suffered me to fall into conversation with them; and I
heard some of their grievances. Sore and heavy to be borne were they,
and no wonder the sufferers were savage and desperate. The man whom Gisborne had wounded across his face would fain have got out
of me the name of his aggressor, but I refused to tell it. Another of
the group heard his inquiry, and made answer—“I know the man. He is one
Gisborne, aide-de-camp to the General-Commandant. I know him well.”

He began to tell some story in connection with Gisborne in a low and
muttering voice; and while he was relating a tale, which I saw excited
their evil blood, and which they evidently wished me not to hear, I
sauntered away and back to my lodgings. That night Antwerp was in open revolt. The inhabitants rose in rebellion
against their Austrian masters. The Austrians, holding the gates of the
city, remained at first pretty quiet in the citadel; only, from time to
time, the boom of the great cannon swept sullenly over the town. But if
they expected the disturbance to die away, and spend itself in a few
hours’ fury, they were mistaken. In a day or two, the rioters held
possession of the principal municipal buildings. Then the Austrians
poured forth in bright flaming array, calm and smiling, as they marched
to the posts assigned, as if the fierce mob were no more to them then the
swarms of buzzing summer flies. Their practised manœuvres, their
well-aimed shot, told with terrible effect; but in the place of one slain
rioter, three sprang up of his blood to avenge his loss. But a deadly
foe, a ghastly ally of the Austrians, was at work. Food, scarce and dear
for months, was now hardly to be obtained at any price. Desperate
efforts were being made to bring provisions into the city, for the
rioters had friends without. Close to the city port, nearest to the
Scheldt, a great struggle took place. I was there, helping the rioters,
whose cause I had adopted. We had a savage encounter with the Austrians. Numbers fell on both sides: I saw them lie bleeding for a moment: then a
volley of smoke obscured them; and when it cleared away, they were
dead—trampled upon or smothered, pressed down and hidden by the
freshly-wounded whom those last guns had brought low. And then a
gray-robed and grey-veiled figure came right across the flashing guns and
stooped over some one, whose life-blood was ebbing away; sometimes it was
to give him drink from cans which they carried slung at their sides;
sometimes I saw the cross held above a dying man, and rapid prayers were
being uttered, unheard by men in that hellish din and clangour, but
listened to by One above. I saw all this as in a dream: the reality of
that stern time was battle and carnage. But I knew that these gray
figures, their bare feet all wet with blood, and their faces hidden by
their veils, were the Poor Clares—sent forth now because dire agony was
abroad and imminent danger at hand. Therefore, they left their
cloistered shelter, and came into that thick and evil mêlée. Close to me—driven past me by the struggle of many fighters—came the
Antwerp burgess with the scarce-healed scar upon his face; and in an
instant more, he was thrown by the press upon the Austrian officer
Gisborne, and ere either had recovered the shock, the burgess had
recognized his opponent. “Ha! the Englishman Gisborne!” he cried, and threw himself upon him with
redoubled fury. He had struck him hard—the Englishman was down; when out
of the smoke came a dark-gray figure, and threw herself right under the
uplifted flashing sword. The burgess’s arm stood arrested. Neither
Austrians nor Anversois willingly harmed the Poor Clares. “Leave him to me!” said a low stern voice. “He is mine enemy—mine for
many years.”

Those words were the last I heard. I myself was struck down by a bullet. I remember nothing more for days.