Some of the Earl's troops, under command of the Lord d'Anghien, had attacked the small town of Grammont, burned it, and put its inhabitants to the sword, sparing neither men, women, nor children. When news of this dreadful slaughter came to Ghent, there was great wrath. A party of White Hoods set out to revenge the massacre of Grammont. Their work was done sooner than expected. The Lord d'Anghien and a large party of knights were met on their way to another expedition like that against Grammont, and, being outnumbered by the White Hoods, were slaughtered without mercy, —very few, and those mostly of the commoner sort, escaping. The Earl was fearfully enraged on hearing of the disaster, for d'Anghien was his favorite knight. He swore a terrible vengeance, and lost no time in preparing to put his threat into execution. Orders were issued to all the neighboring cities and provinces, that there should be no more trade with Ghent, nor should it be supplied with provisions. Thus famine at last entered the city, and from every house went up a cry of distress. The people were starving to death.

Philip van Artevelde was in the great hall or the Earl's palace, which had been given him for a residence. Peter den Bosch and other leaders of the

White Hoods were seated at one end of the hall, talking in a low voice. Philip paced up and down in deep thought. From without came loud and confused noises as of a great and turbulent crowd. Philip went to the window and looked out. The narrow street was thronged with people, thin, hollow-eyed, starving. When they saw him, they raised a shrill, despairing cry for bread: "Give us bread, or we die!"

Sick at heart, Philip turned from the window. After a few hasty steps up and down the hall, he went up to the council, who were discussing in low tones what should be done, and broke in upon their conference. His voice was harsh, as if the words were wrung from him with pain.

"Debate is useless. There is but one way, and that is submission. I go to beg the Earl's mercy for these poor wretches. What is to be my fate I care not, so that the starving people obtain pardon and bread."

The council rose in dismay. Peter den Bosch stepped in the way of Philip, who was leaving the hall.

"Philip van Artevelde, art thou mad? Is it thus a Van Artevelde abandons the people who set him over them? What mercy dost thou expect from Louis of Flanders, other than the wolf's mercy to the sheep?"

"I ask no mercy for myself, so that he shows mercy to these people, whose piteous cries pierce my soul."

“Listen,” said an aged citizen who had taken part in the council; "the words of Van Artevelde are good, but there is a better course yet to pursue. Let ten or twelve of us, known leaders of the people, seek out the Earl, and submit to his mercy, so that he pardon the people of Ghent. But let him swear he will shed no blood, neither of us nor of them, his vengeance being satisfied with our banishment and the seizure of our goods."

To this there was immediate agreement by all but Peter den Bosch, who swore never to place his head within the power of the cruel Louis.

Small preparation was needed for the journey. In a short space, Philip and eleven others set out for Tournay, where they expected to meet the Earl. As they passed through the market-place, all the people of the city gathered to bid them God-speed, having heard of their intended errand. Philip mounted the steps of the town hall to speak to them, when with one accord the multitude fell on their knees, and, raising their emaciated hands in supplication, begged him to bring them back peace, cost what it would. Then Philip, choking with tears at their sad condition, promised that if peace could be had with safety and honor to them, it should be gained, though he himself never saw them more. So, with the prayers and cries of a starving people ringing in their ears, the twelve deputies set out for Tournay, to beg mercy of the pitiless Earl.

It was near the festival of Easter when the deputies set out for Tournay. Easter week passed without a word of tidings reaching the distressed city. Gloomy enough was that time, usually so full of joy and pleasure. The churches were not decorated, and, to the thousands who crowded them to beg that mercy from God which was denied by men, the hymns of gladness pertaining to the season seemed but a mockery. Other days rolled by, still

no tidings. At last, at dusk, when the gates of the city were about to be closed, twelve horsemen rode slowly into the gate leading towards Tournay, and immediately separated, each taking the way leading to his own home. One of these was recognized as Philip van Artevelde. A crowd gathered, hailing him with joy, and begging him for the glad news of peace. But he rode silently on, his head dropped on his breast, his hood pulled low down to his eyes. Fear fell upon the hearts of the people as they followed him, with dread of the message he brought, to his door. There he dismounted, and, before entering the house, turned gloomily to the people.

"Get you to your homes," said he, in a voice that struck a chill of fear to their hearts, "and may God preserve you from harm! To-morrow morning at nine o'clock, in the market-place, you shall know all."

Then, again dropping his head dejectedly, he entered the house. The crowd, sorrowful and full of dread, dispersed to their homes.

Little was the sleep taken in Ghent that night. Before the sun had risen, the whole population was astir, and crowding towards the market-place. Very feebly most of them went, leaning on their sticks; for, so scarce was food, that over thirty thousand had tasted no bread for a fortnight, and in many houses lay the bodies of those who had died of hunger. None that could come or be carried to the market-place remained in their houses that morning. Those that were but lately stout, stalwart men tottered slowly along, clinging to the walls to save themselves from being pushed down. Famished mothers hugged emaciated babies to their bosoms, and hurried to hear their doom. Some, too weak to walk, were borne on pallets to the meeting-place; of these, some died before the appointed hour for the meeting had come. Among the others came a woman clad in deepest black, — a grayhaired woman, bent with age and sorrow. It was the widow of Jacob van Artevelde. She had given her all to support the poor in her neighborhood, and now, famished as the others, and full of anxiety for her son, had come to hear his fate and that of the city.

It was a silent, dejected crowd that thronged the market-place. The news of Philip's gloomy return had rapidly spread, and the worst was anticipated. What could be worse than starving to death it was hard to conceive, and that fate seemed inevitable. The eagerness of curiosity that had brought them there was fast giving place to the lethargy of despair.

The great bell began to toll. The hour had come. A high window in the town hall opened, and out on the broad sill stepped Philip van Artevelde, clad in complete armor. The leaders of the White Hoods, and the deputies who had gone with him to Tournay, gathered in the window behind him. Not a shout or cry greeted their chief as he looked sadly upon the thousands of ghastly faces turned towards his. There was a silence as of death in all that vast crowd. Not a motion, save that one old and bowed woman, clad in deepest black, clasped her withered hands, and sank to her knees with a heart-broken sob. She knew, with the first glance at her son's face, that all was lost.

Slowly, painfully, Philip told his story. He and his fellow-deputies had

gone to Tournay, but the Earl refused to see them, and remained in Bruges. Great nobles, moved with pity at the dreadful sufferings of the Ghentese, pleaded with the Earl in their behalf, but to no purpose. At length, after many weary days of waiting, came the cruel answer. All the men in Ghent, between the ages of fifteen and sixty, bareheaded, barefooted, naked to their shirts, and with halters around their necks, should come out of the city six miles to a plain. There, kneeling on the bare ground, they should place themselves at the mercy of the Earl, to be killed or pardoned as it pleased him. So bitter was his hatred, that small indeed were the hopes of pardon for the greater number.

Piteous was the distress of the people, when the dreadful message was delivered. Men, women, and children clung to each other, bewailing with tears their husbands, fathers, brothers, and neighbors. No such sorrow had been seen in Ghent since it was a city. Philip himself was so moved that for some minutes he could not speak to the people. At last he commanded silence. He told them a decision must be made, and that quickly. One of three things must be done. Either close the gates securely, go into the churches, confess their sins, and die of starvation, like martyrs abandoned of men but resting themselves in God's mercy; or submit to the hard conditions of the Earl, trusting to his forgiveness, but prepared to meet a shameful death; or hastily choose out five or six thousand men to march suddenly upon the Earl at Bruges, either to win relief for Ghent or to meet honorable death. Those nearest him asked what was his advice, for into his hands they placed themselves, having no hope elsewhere.

Instantly Philip's face lighted up with enthusiasm. Drawing his sword, he lifted it in the sight of all the multitude, in a few ringing words spurring them on to a last glorious attempt for life and freedom. The flash of his blade kindled the enthusiasm of the people into flame. A thousand swords were drawn in answer. Even the old men, tottering with age and famine, waved their sticks and crutches. Women pressed their children convulsively to their bosoms, thinking of the possible victory that should bring them bread. The meeting broke up in haste, every one hurrying home to prepare for the march that was to take place on the morrow.

Never had army set forth to seek battle like that which on May-day, 1382, left the city of Ghent and took the road to Bruges. Five thousand gaunt, haggard men, so weak with long-continued hunger that they tottered under the light armor they wore, and scarce had strength to wield their heavy weapTwo days must pass before they could expect to give battle, and for the support of five thousand men during those two days, they had but seven cart-loads of provision, — five being of bread and two of wine. Even this scanty supply seriously diminished the store that was to provision the city until their return.

ons.

Those who were left behind were more miserable and hunger-stricken than they who set forth, for all capable of bearing arms and of marching had been taken. Wretched objects were they who lined the streets, feebly waving a farewell to their scarcely less wretched friends who were setting forth to battle.

"Good friends," said one of the leaders of those left behind to Philip and his comrades, "you see what you leave behind; but never think of returning, unless you can do so with honor, for you will find nothing here. The moment we hear of your defeat or death we will set fire to the town, and perish in the flames, like men in despair."

Thus with death from hunger behind, and death in battle menacing them in front, marched out of Ghent the miserable five thousand. The heavy gates shut with a clang as the last White Hood passed out. The people within the walls betook them to the churches to pray for victory and deliy

erance.

It was on a Thursday that the White Hoods set out for Bruges. That night they encamped after about three miles' march. On Friday, they marched all day, and in the evening encamped within three or four miles of Bruges. During the whole time they touched no part of their slender store of provisions, staying their hunger as best they might with such few supplies as they could pick up on the way.

Saturday morning broke clear and bright, It was the festival of the Holy Cross, and the people of Bruges, with the Earl Louis and his army, who were in the city, prepared to celebrate it with great pomp and splendor. The churches were filled. The services were made more than usually imposing by the magnificent vestments of the priests and the costly decorations of the altars, which fairly blazed with gold and gems. Long processions with golden crosses and silk banners marched through the streets. In the midst of all this pageantry came news that the half-starved White Hoods of Ghent were within a few miles of the city, preferring to be killed in battle rather than to die at home of hunger. The Bruges men were filled with merriment at the thought of these starvelings marching upon them. No sooner were the church services over, than they armed themselves hastily to rush upon and slaughter the small and weak band who had come out to seek death. Earl Louis and his knights rode with them; the whole army numbering over forty thousand men, well armed and well fed. The Ghent army numbered but five thousand, enfeebled by long fasting and by their weary march. There was but little rejoicing among the White Hoods when the sun rose that morning. They were weak, weary, and hungry. Every minute they expected to see the Bruges army marching upon them. as they were, they remembered it was a festival day. religious services were held throughout the camp. Sermons were preached by the monks, encouraging the men to bravery and resolution; after which the White Hoods embraced, taking leave of one another as men who parted never to meet again. Many were the tears shed as they thought of those left miserably at home. After the services were over, they gathered around a small hill, where Philip addressed them, recounting the causes of the war, the many evils suffered at the hands of the Earl, and the distress brought upon them through his hard-hearted rejection of their appeals for mercy. He told them defeat was death to themselves, and worse misery to their wives and children than what they now endured. Then he bade them divide

Badly conditioned With the first light,