My lord went home in the winter, but Esmond was afraid to follow him.  His dear mistress wrote him letters more than once, thanking him, as mothers know how to thank, for his care and protection of her boy, extolling Esmond’s own merits with a great deal more praise than they deserved; for he did his duty no better than any other officer; and speaking sometimes, though gently and cautiously, of Beatrix.  News came from home of at least half a dozen grand matches that the beautiful maid of honor was about to make.  She was engaged to an earl, our gentleman of St. James’s said, and then jilted him for a duke, who, in his turn, had drawn off.  Earl or duke it might be who should win this Helen, Esmond knew she would never bestow herself on a poor captain.  Her conduct, it was clear, was little satisfactory to her mother, who scarcely mentioned her, or else the kind lady thought it was best to say nothing, and leave time to work out its cure.  At any rate, Harry was best away from the fatal object which always wrought him so much mischief; and so he never asked for leave to go home, but remained with his regiment that was garrisoned in Brussels, which city fell into our hands when the victory of Ramillies drove the French out of Flanders.

CHAPTER XIII.

I meet an old acquaintance in Flanders, and find my mother’s grave and my own Cradle there.

Being one day in the Church of St. Gudule, at Brussels, admiring the antique splendor of the architecture (and always entertaining a great tenderness and reverence for the Mother Church, that hath been as wickedly persecuted in England as ever she herself persecuted in the days of her prosperity), Esmond saw kneeling at a side altar an officer in a green uniform coat, very deeply engaged in devotion.  Something familiar in the figure and posture of the kneeling man struck Captain Esmond, even before he saw the officer’s face.  As he rose up, putting away into his pocket a little black breviary, such as priests use, Esmond beheld a countenance so like that of his friend and tutor of early days, Father Holt, that he broke out into an exclamation of astonishment and advanced a step towards the gentleman, who was making his way out of church.  The German officer too looked surprised when he saw Esmond, and his face from being pale grew suddenly red.  By this mark of recognition, the Englishman knew that he could not be mistaken; and though the other did not stop, but on the contrary rather hastily walked away towards the door, Esmond pursued him and faced him once more, as the officer, helping himself to holy water, turned mechanically towards the altar, to bow to it ere he quitted the sacred edifice.

“My Father!” says Esmond in English.

“Silence!  I do not understand.  I do not speak English,” says the other in Latin.