My Merry Rockhurst by Egerton Castle

The early September night had descended upon Bruges,-"City of Bridges,"-once the seat of the most luxurious court in Europe, now so far away, fallen from its high if not from its wealthy estate. The life of the little town, never very active or varied under the Spaniard's rule, seemed this evening to have been swept into a stillness emphasised only by an occasional footfall upon the cobbles of its winding streets, some husky cry from a barge gliding ghost-like down a canal, or the far-away barking of dogs on the farm lands beyond the walls. A sea mist had crept from the north, muffling even these sounds of silence, rolling in thicker volumes along the many sluggard waters that intersect the old Flemish Mart and bring prosperity to her comfortable merchants, as it were in their sleep.

It hung itself in loose wisps around the carven towers of the Cathedral, the giddy heights of the belfry-whence, as the hours slipped on, deep bell voices answered clear bell voices, like spirits communing from their heights across the petty lives below.