O DAY MOST CALM, MOST BRIGHT!...

THE WEEK WERE DARK BUT FOR THY LIGHT.-Herbert.

OLD

CHAPTER I.A MAN'S HAND.

Antwerp, the Antwerp of the Sixteenth century, was throbbing, through all the veins and arteries of its busy streets, with eager vivid life-life social, commercial, political, religious. Night had fallen, and men were wont then to go to rest early after their strenuous days -as indeed they mostly did after the brief tumultuous days of their "life's fitful fever "-yet there were many footsteps in the streets and

many lights still burning in the casements of the high, narrow, irregular houses. The breath of coming events, like the cold breeze that foreruns the dawn, had stolen over the minds of men and made them restless. Party strife ran high, strong passions were awakened, new and old opinions strove together for the mastery. But over all there brooded still the dread shadow of a baneful tyranny. Philip of Spain, from his distant gloomy lair, ruled over men's bodies: while in horrible unison, the two tyrannies being in truth but one,

the Inquisition-or what was the Inquisition in all but the name-claimed to rule over their souls.

But in the Sixteenth century, as in every other, people for the most part lived out their own lives, with little thought enough of the larger life surging around them, unless such thought was forced upon them by some personal wrong or oppression. So it must be with the many, if the world is to go on at all. No matter how we are ruled, or by whom,

"We sow the glebe, we reap the corn,

We build the house where we may rest."

else are we like to go foodless and shelterless. Still, it is very rare for an educated, thoughtful man, with a keen intellectual life, to feel no sympathetic throb of the pulse in harmony with the life around him. A man of this type would walk alone amongst his fellows, as far away from them as if he were a spirit from the distant past, or a thing of the stuff of which prophetic dreams of the future are made.

Such a man sat in Antwerp, in his private room, on this night of the year of grace 1565. The room was high up, in a high house overlooking the Place aux Gants, and so near the great cathedral that the "melodious clangour" of its many bells, so sweet yet so loud, might well have proved distracting to a solitary student. But no sense is dulled so easily by habit as that of hearing; and it would have taken more than the bells of Antwerp to disturb Adrian Perrenot when once he was seated at his books.

Nature had dealt kindly with him. His face was refined and thoughtful, noble rather than handsome, with a great forehead, large grey eyes, and sensitive mouth half hidden by a beard, brown like the rumpled hair which his careless hand tossed aside. His tall spare figure, when erect, was not ungraceful, though he did not show it to advantage, leaning on his elbows and stooping over the table, his shoulders covered with a frayed and faded cloak.

A lamp burned before him, illumining the pages of a great open book. This was the immortal work of Vesalius, the father of modern anatomy. Adrian Perrenot, Doctor of Medicine, had sat at the feet of this great teacher at the University of Padua, where he took his degree and his licence. He could, and did, practice the healing art, but his heart was not in it. The devouring, all-consuming passion that urged him. on, making him forego not only the lighter amusements but the deeper joys of life- -was not the desire to do, but the longing to know. Had he prayed (but he did not pray) all his prayer would have been, "Let me know something more."

His passion was utterly impersonal. There was not a trace in it of vanity, scarcely a trace of ambition. He wanted to know, he did not want men to know that he knew. He longed for the discovery of new truths, he did not care particularly to be their discoverer. He yearned for the crown of knowledge, not for the crown of fame.

He pushed the book of Vesalius aside, and bent low over an unfinished drawing. It represented a human hand, with bones and sinews, veins and muscles, displayed with the utmost attainable accuracy. He dared to think that, in this work of his own, he was adding something of importance to the delineations of Vesalius; that this hand— his hand-showed points of anatomy never before observed or depicted. That he had found them was of no particular importance, that every one henceforward should be able to find them was of infinite importance. He began eagerly to compare his own drawing with that in the book; and was far too intently, and too happily, engrossed with his work to notice the passing of many footsteps outside his door to the attic chambers above. These footsteps indeed were stealthy, and carefully hushed, still in stairs and passages boards will sometimes creak..

But presently he paused for a moment, as a sound from the room overhead fell upon his ear. Not the sound of voices, but the sound of one voice, rising and falling in solemn cadence, as though a man were speaking to God for men, or to men for God. Beguiled for a moment into a passing thought of the trivial affairs of his fellow-creatures, Adrian said to himself, "So that heretic is preaching again to-night-he will be caught some day, and there will be a pile in the Grande Place!" and then, with something between a shrug and a shudder, "What fools men are, to be sure-Holy Saints! The lamp!"

For the wick of the lamp sank suddenly in its socket, and the room was in darkness. "Henry!" the physician called aloud, "Henry!"

No answer. Again and again he repeated the call. Always without result.

Muttering a malediction on his pupil, he rose to go in search of him. The next room opened into his; and he assumed from the light under the door, that it was not untenantel. Nor was it. The pupil, a mere boy, seemed to be already as keen a student as his master. He stood before a shelf at the far end of the room, absorbed in the pages of a ponderous book, beside which he had, rather insecurely, placed his lamp.

Adrian came behind him, and looked. When he saw the book he was devouring, his broad brow contracted, and his face flushed with anger, the sudden anger of a gentle-tempered scholar.

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How is this?" he said, seizing the boy by the collar of his doublet. "Have I not told thee never even to touch that book-never to look within it?"

Henry started, flushed, thrust something hastily into his sleeve, then turned quickly and faced his master. His was a fair face, smooth and boyish, English in its expression, lighted with deep blue eyes and crowned with golden hair. "Pardon me, master," he said in tones trembling between wrath and fear, "but I found it unlocked-so I thought you did not care."

Adrian stood self-convicted. With his usual thoughtlessness he had forgotten to lock the heavy iron clasp of the forbidden book. This did not make him more placable. 66 What matters that, sirrah?" he answered sharply. "I forbade