Which way was she to turn? where seek aid or shelter? She closed her little hands in terror and dismay, and, while shuddering with cold, suddenly a chorus burst upon her ear, and, before she could think which way to turn, a dozen of great fellows in kepis, blouses, and sabots, fresh from some estaminet, surrounded her, with shouts and mockery.
One put an arm round her and tried to kiss her, tearing away her veil; but endued with strength beyond herself, by the extremity of her terror, she dashed him back with both her hands.
'God help me!' she exclaimed.
And hemming her in by a ring, they danced round her hand in hand, singing a song, which, as it was in Flemish and unknown to her, she supposed was something very ribald and horrible, yet it was only thus:—
'Hark to the sound
Of the fiddle and horn,
The dance and the song—
'Tis a festal morn.
Oh! little they reck of dull care
Or of sorrow;
They laugh for the day
Though they weep on the morrow.'
'Ouf!' shouted one, 'that would make a grand pendant to the Zeike Jongeling,' referring to Jan Van Beers, the greatest lyric poet of the day.
'Une blonde English mees—une nymphe—parbleu!' cried one fellow.
'Sommes-nous fantastiques! N'est-elle pas jolie! ('Isn't she pretty!') cried another.
'Sur mon honneur, ma belle coquette!' cried a third, making a clutch at her.
Others shouted strange things in Flemish, showing that they were boors or artizans, redolent of garlic, beer, and tobacco; but with a gasping sob of terror she broke away from them and fled again. She heard the clatter of sabots behind her, as some started in pursuit; but she was too swift for them, and the sound soon died away in the distance.