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Updated: July 15, 2025
While Jorian was putting on his doublet and jerkin to go to Peter's tomb, his tongue was not idle. "They used to call him a magician out Sevenbergen way.
She whose name was so fiercely interdicted in this house was much spoken of, and even pitied elsewhere. All Sevenbergen was sorry for her, and the young men and maidens cast many a pitying glance, as they passed, at the little window where the beauty of the village lay "dying for love." In this familiar phrase they underrated her spirit and unselfishness.
But the simpleton, fearing the evil eye, or glamour, claps both hands to her face and flies panic-stricken. But indeed, they are not more superstitious than the Sevenbergen folk, which take thy father for a magician.
Not bide in Sevenbergen? What need to bide a day, as it vexes thee, and puts thee in a fever: for fevered thou art, deny it not."
The soldier laid the letter on the table by Catherine, and refusing all guerdon for bringing it, went off to Sevenbergen. The letter was unfolded and spread out; and curiously enough, though not one of them could read, they could all tell it was Gerard's handwriting. "And your father must be away," cried Catherine. "Are ye not ashamed of yourselves? not one that can read your brother's letter."
I have told Dirk Brower that Gerard is out of Holland, but much I doubt he is not a league from Tergou." "Why, where is he, then?" "Where should he be, but with her he loves? But if so, he must not loiter. These be deep and dark and wicked men that seek him. Giles, I see that in Dirk Brower's eye makes me tremble. Oh, why cannot I fly to Sevenbergen and bid him away?
There the folk are music bitten, and they molest not beggars, unless they fake to boot, and then they drown us out of hand that moment, curse 'em! We came to Strasbourg. And I looked down Rhine with longing heart. The stream how swift! It seemed running to clip Sevenbergen to its soft bosom. With but a piece of timber and an oar I might drift at my ease to thee, sleeping yet gliding still.
Erasmus was born at Rotterdam, probably on October 28, 1467. He was a "love child." His father, Gerard of Tergou, being engaged to Margaret, daughter of a physician of Sevenbergen, anticipated the nuptial rites.
"Burgomaster," said he, with trembling voice, "I have not been at Sevenbergen these three years, and I know not the name of those you saw me with, nor where they dwelt; but, as my time is precious, though you value it not, give you good day." And he darted out, with his eyes sparkling. Ghysbrecht started up in huge ire; but he sank into his chair again. "He fears me not.
Giles started on the mule, and little Kate retired, and did the last thing now in her power for her beloved brother prayed on her knees long and earnestly for his safety. Gerard and Margaret went gaily to Sevenbergen in the first flush of recovered liberty and successful adventure. But these soon yielded to sadder thoughts.
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