The moon was just rising brilliant and pure from her bed of clouds, and her rays played on the waves, which were scarcely ruffled by the light breeze. The boat no longer detained floated adrift. A violent shock aroused Frega! She rose painfully on her knees and saw at some distance from her a horrible sight. The furious giant was crushing the body of Atuix between his hands. Frega dragged herself to the edge of the boat, her eyes fixed, her face ashy pale, she with difficulty stretched out her neck, tried to advance farther, as if under some invisible attraction; an instant she gazed, leaned forward, her eyes tearless, not a sigh from her bosom; then she loosened her hold and rolled over into the river.
A year after this night Cæsar had put an end to Gaulish liberty. The strength, the courage and the heroic resistance of this great people whose ancestors had in one of their daring wanderings over Europe encamped on the ruins of Rome, was now crushed under the fortune and genius of the conqueror. By the glare of vast conflagrations, Belgium, the perpetual focus of revolt against oppression, was traversed by three Roman armies, and bridges thrown over the Scheldt opened the passage to the country of the Menapians. One day a detached company of the legion of the vanguard followed the banks of the river, guided, it is said, by a mysterious being. Twice the sun had sunk to rest without their returning. German horsemen sent on their track towards the middle of the night were stopped at the sight of a strange spectacle. Raging flames agitated by the wind were devouring the foundations of a tower which had protected a castle of colossal proportions. The ground was lit by the glare of the fire and strewn with the dead bodies of the Roman soldiers. In the midst of them, on a mound of the dead, was stretched motionless, covered with wounds, pierced all over by darts, the enormous body of a giant. From one of his huge arms, from which the hand was severed, ran on the ground a rivulet of black blood. Over his head bent a warrior. After some moments of suspense the eyes of the giant opened. The warrior instantly raised himself, parting his long, flowing hair from off his pale and beautiful face. Then his eyes suddenly flashed with extraordinary brightness—he approached near to the monster’s ear, shouting out these words:—
“Antigon! Antigon! I must call loudly, is it not true?—so that thine ear may catch the sound? Well, now listen to me, Antigon! Oh! thou art not quite dead, thou canst yet understand and remember! A year has elapsed since—truly, truly, thy wounds are ghastly and bleeding and sweet to look upon!—Yes, it was on a summer night, two lovers floated together on the river. Oh! thy den was not as bright as this night—Two lovers thou knowest!—two lovers who only spoke of love, their hearts filled with gentle thoughts. Look, look, how well one sees one’s shadow here in thy blood.—One of the two lovers was a bard. Oh! oh! thy dying eyes flash! Thou didst kill him, and the other—But where are thy terrible hands, Antigon? The other, that feeble woman—Thou hearest me? She lives to avenge him!”
A shudder ran through the giant’s body, a frightful rattle burst from his chest; his teeth chattered like the clashing of swords, his eyes rolled once more in their bloody orbits, and then closed forever. He was dead. Frega knelt on the ground and prayed. Upon that spot rose Antwerp. Now Antwerp is the Antwerpen of the ancient Flemish language, which still preserves its original strength and richness in its Saxon garb—Antwerpen, in which word the chroniclers find Hand and Werpen, to throw, in remembrance of the giant Antigon and the hands which he threw into the Scheldt.
II
Yvon Bruggermans: A Legend of the Antwerp Cathedral
When you approach the old Flemish city, built upon the banks of the Scheldt, in one of the finest situations of Europe, the first object which attracts the attention of the traveler is the great spire of the Cathedral. This “Heaven-directed” spire is one of the loftiest and finest in the world. It is a masterpiece of pyramidal construction, delighting the vision not more by its vast height than by its exquisite proportions. It is surmounted by a cross of a size corresponding with the edifice itself. The Antwerpians are justly proud of their antique cathedral, which occupies the first rank among the monuments of Europe; if time and space permitted I would give you a sketch of its beauties, but many others before me have described its elegant marble statuary, chapels, confessionals, altars, choirs, and above all the chef-d’œuvre of the immortal Rubens. Before the grand entrance, which so plainly shows the imprint of time, observe this blue marble stone, inlaid with several small pieces of brass, scattered promiscuously and seeming to form a mysterious design, which irresistibly excites one’s curiosity. This monument marks the historical and fatal spot where the event occurred which I am about to relate.
SPIRE OF THE CATHEDRAL, ANTWERP.
The 22d of October, 1520, was a day of fêtes and rejoicing in all the cities of Flanders, for on that day a Fleming, Charles V, was crowned at Aix-la-Chapelle. The rich and powerful city of Antwerp, whose merchants were opulent as princes, displayed all its luxury and splendour to honour its new Cæsar. The day commenced with prayers in all the churches and finished with national games of every description upon the public squares, and processions of artisans preceded by the banners of their several professions. The streets resounded with songs and repeated cries of “Vive l’Empereur Charles!” and as the night approached the night became more dense and noisy, for before the Hôtel de Ville immense casks were placed, which poured forth floods of wine and beer that helped to increase the enthusiasm of the citizens of the good city of Antwerp. But above all sounded the glorious peals of the silver chimes from the old cathedral, as if it wished to add its voice in a hymn of praise to the young Emperor whose reign commenced under such auspicious circumstances.
There were nevertheless in the city many sad hearts, as upon all such occasions there are many who cannot participate. At the window of one of the largest but poorest lodging houses of the Kamerstraet, known by the sign of a large Red Lion, stood a young man whose desponding and sorrowful air contrasted strongly with the joyful bands that passed under his window. It was evident that he took no part in the general rejoicing. The room in which he was, although showing that scrupulous Flemish neatness, presented an appearance of extreme poverty. A miserable pine bedstead, curtains of blue linen, four old chairs, and an old oak table comprised the furniture of the room. The whitewashed walls were devoid of ornament, except the image of the Virgin, before which burned a small wax candle. Upon the bed reclined a woman whose pale, wan face, deep-sunk eyes, livid lips, and forehead covered with premature wrinkles (she being still young) wore the marks of serious physical and mental suffering. The silence which reigned in the room was broken by the invalid.