The morning star and Catholic messenger. [volume] (New Orleans [La.]) 1868-1881, 1874-09-13

horses. black ravens few over the fated camp,
watching for each ones death to gorge them
selves with his flesh. The fourth side showed
| the happy return of the Count of Flanders.
His first wife, Fogaets of Bethune, lay weeping
on his breast, while her little sons Robert and
| Baldwin lovingly pressed his hand in theirs.
BY the marble chimney piece, within which
| q small wood fire was burning, sat the old
Count Guy in a massive arm chair. Full of
deep thought, he was supporting his head on
his right hand, his eye resting unconsciousIy
on his son William, who was busily reading
prayers from o book with silver clasps. Ma
tilds, Robert de Bethune's youthful daughter,
stood with her hawk on the other side of the
chamber. She was caressipg the bird, without
needing her grandfather or uncle; while Guy
with dark misgiving of the future, was
brooding over the past, and William was pray
ing to heaven for some alienation of their
sorrows, she was playing with her favorite,
without a thought that her fathers inherit
ance was confiscated, and possessed by his
enemies. Not that she was wanting in feeling /;
but, half-chiid as she was, her sorrow did not
last beyond the Immediate impression which
excited it. When she was told that all the
towns Of Flanders were occupied by the foe,
she burst into abundant and bitter tears but
by the evening of that self-same day her tears
were dried and forgotten, and she was ready to
caress her hawk as before.
After Guys eyes had for some time rested
unmeaningly upon his son, he suddenly let
fall the hand which supported his head, and
asked
William, my son, what is it you are asking
30 fervently of Godf"
am praying for my poor sister Philippa,"
was the youths answer; GOOD knows, my
father, whether the Queen Joanna has not al
ready sent her to her grave but in that case
my prayers for her SOUL"
And as he spoke he bowed forward his head,
as if to conceal the tears which fell from his
eyes.
The old father sighed heavily and painfully
lie felt that his sons evil forboding might but
too easily turn out true, for Joanna of Navarro
was wicked enough to make it so nevertheless
he would not give utterance to such feelin 2
and SO he only replied:
1t is not right, William, to sadden yourself
with forebodings of evil. Hope is given to as
mortals for our consolation here ON earth and
why, then should you not hopef Since your
sister has been in prison, You mourn and pine
80, that not smile ever passes over your
countenance. 1t is well to feel for your sister;
but in Gods name do not give yourself up to
this dark despair"
Smile, said you, father smile while our
poor Philippa is buried in q dungeon No,
that can not Her tears drop upon the cold
ground in the silence of her dungeon; she cries
to heaven because of her sorrows she calls on
you, my father,-she calls on Us all for
relief; and who answers herf the hollow
echo of the deep vaults of the Louvre I
See you her not, pale as death, wasted and
faded like dying flower, with her hands raised
to heaven hear you her not, how she cries,
My father, my brothers help me am dying
in these chainsp All this 1 see and hear in
my heart; feel it in my soul; how, then, can
1 smilef"
Matilda, who had half listened to these sor
rowful words, set her hawk hastily on the back
of q chair, and fell with violent burst of
tears and sobbipg at the feet of her grand
father. Laying her head on his knees. she cried
out piteously.
lis my dear aunt deadY o God what sor-
SOW! Shall not then sec her again 7"
The old Count raised her tenderly from the
ground, and said kindly:
Be calm, my dear Matilda; weep not:
Philippa is not dead"
"Not dead !" exclaimed the girl with aston
ishment; why, then, does my uncle William
speak SO of death 2"
You do not understand him." answered the
Count; "we know of no change that has
taken place with regard to her."
The young girl then dried her tears, casting
the while reproachful look npon William,
and saying to him, in the midst of her sobs:
You are always saddening me to no pur-
pose, uncle! One would think that you had
forgotten all words of comfort for you ever
talk in a way that makes me tremble. MY
very hawk is frightened at your voice, it sounds
so hollow 1t is not kind of you, uncle. and
it vexes me much."
William regarded his niece with eyes that
seemed full of sorrow for the suffering he had
caused her. No sooner had Matilda perceived
this look of grief, than, running up to him,
and seizing tenderly one of his hands: