se in the direction indicated by him. Some minutes after, they
knocked at the door. A stream (which ran into the Nethe, a little river
about a mile off), bordered with reeds and grassy banks, bathed the feet
of the willows with its murmuring waters. Behind the house, which was
built of bricks, and covered with tiles, was a little garden, encircled
by a quickset hedge.

All was empty, solitary, and deserted, and no one replied to the blows
struck by the travelers. Remy did not hesitate; he drew his knife, cut a
branch of willow, with which he pushed back the bolt and opened the
door. The lock, the clumsy work of a neighboring blacksmith, yielded
almost without resistance. Remy entered quickly, followed by Diana,
then, closing the door again, he drew a massive bolt, and thus
intrenched, seemed to breathe more freely. Feeling about, he found a
bed, a chair, and a table in an upper room. Here he installed his
mistress, and then, returning to the lower room, placed himself at the
window, to watch the movements of Du Bouchage.

His reflections were as somber as those of Remy. "Certainly," said he to
himself, "some danger unknown to us, but of which the inhabitants are
not ignorant, is about to fall on the country. War ravages the land;
perhaps the French have taken, or are about to assault Antwerp, and the
peasants, seized with terror, have gone to take refuge in the towns."

But this reasoning, however plausible, did not quite satisfy him. Then
he thought, "But what are Remy and his mistress doing here? What
imperious necessity drags them toward this danger? Oh, I will know; the
time has come to speak to this woman, and to clear away all my doubts.
Never shall I find a better opportunity."

He approached the house, and then suddenly stopped, with a hesitation
common to hearts in love.

"No," said he, "no, I will be a martyr to the end. Besides, is she not
mistress of her own actions? And, perhaps, she does not even know what
fable was invented by Remy. Oh, it is he alone that I hate; he who
assured me that she loved no one. But still let me be just. Ought this
man for me, whom he did not know, to have betrayed his mistress's
secrets? No, no. All that remains for me now is to follow this woman to
the camp, to see her hang her arms round some one's neck and hear her
say, 'See what I have suffered, and how I love you.' Well, I will follow
her there, see what I dread to see, and die of it; it will be trouble
saved for the m