sails, gaily-painted windmills, and women in their blue or brown jackets and jaunty caps, made a varied yet harmonious picture. The broad Scheldt was alive with ships, which carried on a ceaseless traffic. The merchant fleets rested as proudly on her bosom as though the ashes of heretics did not lie beneath those dancing waters.
Conrad's heart swelled with sorrow as he saw a fleet of vessels sailing outside the harbor of Antwerp, bound for English shores. Too well he understood the reason. The Spanish Inquisition had driven the industrious Flemings from their homes, to enrich those port which welcomed the exiles.
“Unless the tide of emigration ceases,” he said to a countryman who was passing, “Antwerp is a doomed city. Yonder ships are sailing the wrong way.”
“You are right, Mynheer,” answered the burgher. Then lowering his voice he added, “King Philip will soon have no people left in the Netherlands to hang or burn.”
In the suburbs of this great commercial metropolis stood the house of Dr. John Chenoweth. It was a large brick structure, two stories high, with faint pencillings of white relieving the sombre coloring of the brick. Over the front door was a floriated arch, with artistically carved heads as finials. There were numerous projecting gables, and each gable was surmounted by the proverbial
