sightless eyes to heaven and said:

    "'Sister, let thy sorrows cease;
      Sinful brother, part in peace!'"

Up from the direful place of doom, to the light of day and to the fresh air, passed those who had held this awful trial. Shrieks and groans followed the winding steps. The peasant who heard the unearthly cries bowed his head, the hermit told his beads, the brother crossed himself, even the stag on Cheviot hills bounded to his feet, listened and then trembling lay down to hide among the mountain ferns.

[Illustration: THE STUDY, ABBOTSFORD.]

CHAPTER III.

We now return to Lord Marmion, who, led by the Palmer, was hastening on to Holyrood. When the heights of Lammermoor were reached, noon had long passed, and at early nightfall, old Gifford's towers lay before them. Here they had expected hospitality, but the lord of the Castle had gone to Scotland's camp, where were gathered the noblest and bravest of her sons. No friendly summons called them to the hall, for in her lord's absence, the lady refused admittance alike to friend and foe.

On through the hamlet rode the train until it drew rein at the inn. Now down from their seats sprang the horsemen. The courtyard rang with jingling spurs, horses were led to the stalls, and the bustling host gave double the orders that could be obeyed. The building was large, and though rudely built, its cheerful fire and savory food were most welcome to the weary men. Soon by the wide chimney's roaring blaze, and in the place of state, sat Marmion. He watched his followers as they mixed the brown ale, and enjoyed the bountiful repast. Oft the lordly warrior mingled in the mirth they made.

    "For though, with men of high degree,
     The proudest of the proud was he,
     Yet, trained in camp, he knew the art
     To win the soldier's hardy heart.
     Boisterous as March, yet fresh as May,
     With open hand and brow as free,
     Lover of wine and minstrelsy."

Directly opposite, resting on his staff, stood the Palmer, the thin, dark visage half seen, half hidden by his hood. Steadily he gazed on Marmion, who by frown and gesture gave evidence that he could ill bear so close a scrutiny.

As squire and archer looked at the stern, dark face of the Pilgrim, their bursts of laughter grew less loud, less frequent, and gradually their mirth declined. They whispered one to another: "Sawest thou ever such a face? How pale his cheek! How bright his eye! His heart must be set only on his soul's salvation."

To chase away the gloom gradually stealing over the company, and to draw from himself the sullen scowl of the Palmer, Marmion called upon his favorite squire:

    "'Fitz-Eustace, knows't thou not some lay
      To speed the lingering night away?'"

The youth made an unhappy choice. He had a rich, mellow voice, and chose the wild, sad ballad often sung to Marmion by the unfortunate Constance de Beverley. When all was quiet, quiveringly the notes fell upon the air:

SONG.

    "Where shall the lover rest,
       Whom the fates sever
     From his true maiden's breast,
       Parted forever?
     Where early violets die
       Under the willow.

    "There through the summer day,
       Cool streams are laving
     There while the tempests sway,
       Scarce are boughs waving;
     There thy rest shalt thou take,
     Never again to awake,
       Never, O never!

    "Where shall the traitor rove,
       He, the deceiver,
     Who could win maiden's love,
       Win and then leave her?
     In the lost battle,
       Borne down by the flying,
     Where mingles war's rattle
       With groans of the dying.

    "His warm blood the wolf shall lap,
       Ere life be parted.
     Shame and dishonor sit
       By his grave ever;
     Blessing shall hallow it—
       Never, O never!"

The melancholy sound ceased. The song was sad, and bitterly it fell on the false-hearted Marmion. Well he knew that at his request the faithful but misguided Constance had been taken to Lindisfarne to be punished for crime committed through her mistaken love for him. As if he already saw disgrace for himself and death for her, he drew his mantle before his face, and bent his head upon his hands. Constance de Beverley at that moment was dying in her cell.

The meanest groom in all the train could scarce have wished to exchange places with the proud Marmion, could his thoughts have been known. Controlling himself, and raising his head, he said:

"As you sang, it seemed that I heard a death knell rung in mine ear.
What is the meaning of this weird sound?"

Then for the first time the Palmer broke his silence, and said in reply:
"It foretells the death of a loved friend."

Utterance, for once, failed the haughty Marmion, whose pride heretofore could scarcely brook a word even from his King. His glance fell, his brow flushed, for something familiar in the tone or look of the speaker so struck the false heart that he was speechless.

Before his troubled imagination rose a vision of the lovely Constance, beautiful and pure as when, trusting his treacherous words, she left the peaceful walls of her convent. He knew she was now a captive in convent cell, and the strange words of the Palmer, added to the song of the squire, had made him unhappy. "Alas!" he thought, "would that I had left her in purity to live, in holiness to die." Twice he was ready to order, "To horse," that he might fly to Lindisfarne and command that not one golden ringlet of her fair head be harmed, and twice he thought, "They dare not. I gave orders that she should be safe, though not at large."

While thus love and repentance strove in the breast of the lord, the landlord began a weird tale, suggested by the speech of the Palmer. As Marmion listened, he gathered from the legend that not far from where they sat, a knight might learn of future weal or woe. He might, perchance, meet "in the charmed ring" his deadliest foe, in the form of a spectre, and with it engage in mortal combat. If victorious over this supernatural antagonist, the omen was victory in all future undertakings.

    "Marmion longed to prove his chance;
     In charmed ring to break a lance."

The yeomen had drunk deep; the ale was strong, and at a sign from their master, all sought rest on the hostel floor before the now dying embers. For pillow, under each head, was quiver or targe. The flickering fire threw fitful shadows on the strange group. Marmion and his squires retired to other quarters. Where the Palmer had disappeared, none knew or cared.

Alone, folded in his green mantle and nestling in the hay of a waste loft, lay Fitz-Eustace, the pale moonlight falling upon his youthful face and form. He was dreaming happy dreams of hawk and hound, of ring and glove, of lady's eyes, when suddenly he woke. A tall form, half in the moonbeams, half in the gloom, stood beside him; but before he could draw his dagger, he recognized the voice of Marmion, who said:

"Fitz-Eustace, rise, and saddle Bevis! I cannot rest. The air must cool my brow. I fain would ride to view the elfin scene of chivalry of which we heard