shrill upon the air, clear and distinct from all other sounds. "Holy
Mother!" exclaimed my landlord, "the Poor Clares!"

He snatched up the fragments of my meal, and crammed them into my
hands, bidding me follow. Down stairs he ran, clutching at more
food, as the women of his house eagerly held it out to him; and in a
moment we were in the street, moving along with the great current,
all tending towards the Convent of the Poor Clares. And still, as if
piercing our ears with its inarticulate cry, came the shrill tinkle
of the bell. In that strange crowd were old men trembling and
sobbing, as they carried their little pittance of food; women with
tears running down their cheeks, who had snatched up what provisions
they had in the vessels in which they stood, so that the burden of
these was in many cases much greater than that which they contained;
children, with flushed faces, grasping tight the morsel of bitten
cake or bread, in their eagerness to carry it safe to the help of the
Poor Clares; strong men--yea, both Anversois and Austrians--pressing
onward with set teeth, and no word spoken; and over all, and through
all, came that sharp tinkle--that cry for help in extremity.

We met the first torrent of people returning with blanched and
piteous faces: they were issuing out of the convent to make way for
the offerings of others. "Haste, haste!" said they. "A Poor Clare
is dying! A Poor Clare is dead for hunger! God forgive us and our
city!"

We pressed on. The stream bore us along where it would. We were
carried through refectories, bare and crumbless; into cells over
whose doors the conventual name of the occupant was written. Thus it
was that I, with others, was forced into Sister Magdalen's cell. On