Ten days passed on, and the invalid made such rapid progress that the infirmarian and his staff pronounced him quite out of danger, in no further need of medical treatment, and only requiring the aid of the cook to recover completely his wonted vigor. The interdict was now removed, and Brother Francis seemed happy. He could, henceforth, speak as he pleased to his young protégé. The latter felt equally delighted; for he felt, he knew not why, a sort of unaccountable attachment—it was certainly more than mere gratitude—toward the old man growing daily stronger and stronger within him. And then Brother Francis called him "my son"—but perhaps, as an old man, that was the name by which he addressed all youngsters. At all events, he loved the old monk as a child loves a father, and always felt sad when the duties of his rule obliged his venerable friend to leave him for a time.
"And so you tell me you have no recollection of your father?" said Brother Francis, with a sigh, as they sat together one evening—it was the eve of St. Martin—in the same apartment where we first introduced them to our readers.
"None whatever," replied his companion; "he left France as a volunteer with d'Usson's division, and was killed at Limerick when I was but three years old. So I often heard my mother say."
The speaker did not remark the shudder that ran through the old man's frame at mention of Limerick; but only paid attention to his next question, which rapidly followed.
"And your father's father?"
"Was, as I have already said, an Englishman—but he, too, died in the wars long ago. They say he fell in Spain."
The old man could no longer restrain his feelings. Bursting into tears, and clasping his young companion to his bosom, as he had done on the night of their first meeting, he said:
"No, my child—your grandfather, Walter Herbert, is not dead, but yet survives to give you that blessing which your own poor father could not bestow on you with his parting breath—he stands before you."
It was a touching scene to witness—that old Capuchin monk, with his long white beard, and coarse dark gown, and leathern cincture, and bare sandalled feet, locked in the fond embrace of the young soldier of "the Brigade," on that eve of St. Martin, in the old convent of Bruges! We do not mean to intrude on the sacred [{241}] privacy of domestic feeling, but leaving parent and child to commune with each other in the fulness of their hearts, will, with our readers' kind permission, assume, for the nonce, the province of the Senachie, and briefly relate as much of their history as we have ourselves learned, Outre Mer—and is still oftentimes related on long winter evenings by the brothers who have succeeded—literally stepped into the sandals of—Brother Francis and his comrades.
THE CAPUCHIN'S STORY.