est she in Holland in place of the saddest; oh, I thirst for
their blood, the nasty, sneaking, lying, cogging, cowardly, heartless,
bowelless--how now?"

The monk started wildly up, livid with fury and despair, and rushed
headlong from the place with both hands clenched and raised on high.
So terrible was this inarticulate burst of fury, that Jorian's puny ire
died out at sight of it, and he stood looking dismayed after the human
tempest he had launched.

While thus absorbed he felt his arm grasped by a small, tremulous hand.

It was Margaret Brandt.

He started; her coming there just then seemed so strange. She had waited
long on Peter's tombstone, but the friar did not come, So she went into
the church to see if he was there still. She could not find him.

Presently, going up the south aisle, the gigantic shadow of a friar came
rapidly along the floor and part of a pillar, and seemed to pass through
her. She was near screaming; but in a moment remembered Jorian's shadow
had come in so from the churchyard; and tried to clamber out the nearest
way. She did so, but with some difficulty; and by that time Clement was
just disappearing down the street; yet, so expressive at times is the
body as well as the face, she could see he was greatly agitated. Jorian
and she looked at one another, and at the wild figure of the distant
friar.

"Well?" said she to Jorian, trembling.

"Well," said he, "you startled me. How come you here of all people?"

"Is this a time for idle chat? What said he to you? He has been speaking
to you; deny it not."

"Girl, as I stand here, he asked me whereabout you were buried in this
churchyard."

"Ah!"

"I told him, nowhere, thank Heaven: you were alive and saving other folk
from the churchyard."

"Well?"

"Well, the long and the short is, he knew thy Gerard in Italy; and a
letter came saying you were dead; and it broke thy poor lad's heart. Let
me see; who was the letter written by? Oh, by the demoiselle van
Eyck. That was his way of it. But I up and told him nay; 'twas neither
demoiselle nor dame that penned yon lie, but Ghysbrecht Van Swieten, and
those foul knaves, Cornelis and Sybrandt; these changed the true letter
for one of their own; I told him as how I saw the whole villainy done
through a chink; and now, if I have not been and told you!"

"Oh, cruel! cruel! But he lives. The fear of fears is gone. Thank God!"

"Ay, lass; and as for thine enemies, I have given them a dig. F