stammer out their lame apologies. One by one they left the inn.
The priest was a middle-aged man, attired in the soutane and biretta which proclaimed him a member of the Order of Jesus. His face was sensitive and high-bred. It had the intensity of expression, the bright eye and the transparency of complexion which characterized a religious enthusiast. His form, the outline of which could be dimly seen beneath his cloak, was thin to emaciation. His long, nervous fingers trembled with suppressed excitement. Whatever might be said of many sleek, well-fed priests who walked the streets of Brussels, and who gave no outward evidence of a life of self-denial, this Jesuit was evidently a severe ascetic.
A grave smile hovered about his lips as Conrad Chenoweth approached him, and he said in grateful tones:
“Mynheer Chenoweth, I beg of you to accept my thanks for your timely assistance. I think those wild beasts would soon have torn me to pieces. I should be glad of your company and your protection until we reach a more civilized part of the city.”
“With pleasure,” answered the advocate.
They walked in silence until they arrived at the great cathedral. “I will trouble you no longer, Heer Chenoweth,” said the priest. “Yonder is
