farewell to his wife and family,
first, however, revealing to them his identity, and commending them to
the care of some of his trusty followers.

Tradition tells that Elsa did not long survive the loss of her beloved
husband, but her sons became brave knights, well worthy of the proud
name they bore.

A Legend of Liege

A legend of Liege! and is not Liege itself now almost legendary? Its
venerable church, its world-famous library replete with the priceless
treasures of the past, "with records stored of deeds long since forgot,"
where are they?--but crumbling clusters of ruins fired by the barbarian
torch whose glow, we were told, was to enlighten an ignorant and
uncultured Europe! But one gem remains: the wonderful Hotel de Ville,
type of the Renaissance spirit in Flanders. Liege may be laid in ruins,
but the memory of what it was can never die:

Athens in death is nobler far
Than breathing cities of the West;

and the same may be said of those splendours in stone, those wonders
of medieval architecture, even the blackened walls of which possess a
dignity and beauty which will ever assist the imagination to re-create
the picture of what has been.

Liege is a city of the Middle Ages. Time was when the place boasted but
a single forge; and though bucklers were heaped beside the anvil, and
swords and spears lay waiting for repair, the blacksmith leant against
his door-post, gazing idly up the hill-side. Gradually he was aware of
a figure, which seemed to have grown into shape from a furze-bush, or
to have risen from behind a stone; and as it descended the slope he eyed
curiously the grimy face, long beard, and squat form of what he was
half unwilling to recognize as a human being. Hobbling awkwardly, and
shrugging his shoulders as though cold, the man came in time to the
smithy door.

"What! Jacques Perron--idle when work is to be done? Idle smith! idle
smith! The horse lacks the bit, and the rider the spur.

'Ill fares the hide when the buckler wants mending;
Ill fares the plough when the coulter wants tending.'

Idle smith! idle smith!"

"Idle enough," quoth Jacques. "I'm as idle as you are ugly; but I can't
get charcoal any more than you can get beauty, so I must stand still,
and you be content with your face, though I'd fain earn a loaf and a cup
full enough for both of us this winter morning."

Though the strange man must have known he was horribly ugly--that is,
if he ever bent to