eck was never on any occasion more instinct with that dignity
which inspires respect. He was poor; fortune had struck him a cruel
blow; but in his manly look and calm features there beamed a brave and
independent soul which misfortune itself had been unable to crush.

The auctioneer went on with the sale, assisted in his description of
the various articles by Monsieur De Vlierbeck, who informed the bidders
of their origin, antiquity, and value. Occasionally some gentleman of
the neighborhood, who, in better days, had been on good terms with
Lenora's father, approached him with words of sympathy; but he always
managed to escape adroitly from these indiscreet attempts at
consolation. Whenever it was necessary for him to speak, he showed so
much self-command and composure that he was far above the idle
_compassion_ of that careless crowd; yet if his countenance was calm and
dignified, his heart was weighed down by absorbing grief. All that had
belonged to his ancestors--articles that were emblazoned with the arms
of his family and had been religiously preserved as heirlooms for
several centuries--were sold at contemptible rates and passed into the
hands of brokers. As each historical relic was placed on the table or
held up by the auctioneer, the links of his illustrious race seemed to
break off and depart. When the sale was nearly over, the _portraits_ of
the eminent men who had borne the name of De Vlierbeck were taken down
from the walls and placed upon the stand. The first--that of the hero of
St. Quentin--was knocked off to a dealer for little more than three
francs! In the sale of this portrait, and the laughable price it
brought, there was so much bitter irony that, for the first time, the
agony that had been so long torturing De Vlierbeck's heart began to
exhibit its traces in his countenance. No sooner had the hammer fallen,
than, with downcast eyes and a sigh that was inaudible even to his
nearest neighbor, the stricken nobleman turned from the crowd and left
the saloon, so as not to witness the final sacrifice of the remaining
memorials that bound him to his race.

The sun was but an hour or two above the horizon. A deathlike silence
had taken the place of the noise, bustle, and vulgarity that ruled at
Grinselhof during the morning; the solitary garden-walks were deserted,
the house-door and gate were closed, and a stranger might have supposed
that nothing had occurred to disturb the usual quiet of the spot.
Su