href="@public@vhost@g@gutenberg@html@files@21509@[email protected]#p42" class="pginternal" tag="{http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml}a">Two Lives in One
The Lost Missive
Another Dungeon Tenant
Nemesis
The Demon Exorcised
Father and Child
Reconciliation
A Royal Visitor
The Royal Pardon
The Deserted Brides
Heart Chords
Home, Sweet Home

ILLUSTRATIONS

Old Ragnor's Crypt . . . . . . . . . Cover Art

Wm. Stephen Pryer . . . . . . . . . Frontispiece

The Castle, Hastyngs.

St. Hilda's Keep.

THE CASTLE, HASTYNGS.

Old Ragnor's Cliffs.

Like some horrific Gorgon's mammoth skull,
Thrown up by Titan spade,
From out those caves
Where saurians with mastodons had played,
Before the sea had made their homes their graves,
And scared their ghosts with screech of sea-born mew and gull,

Is Ragnor's beetling brow, the seaman's dread,
That scowls by night and day
On that same sea
And with earth-shaking sound is heard to say,—
Which sound the waves roll back with mocking glee—
"What! Not enough of life ye must e'en have the dead?"

The ragged remnants of an ancient crown
Adorn his kingly head:
'Tis Hastyngs' Tower.
Here dwelt a maiden fair, so fair, 'tis said,
That suitors rich and princely sought her bower,
To sue in vain: whereat her father's haughty brow would frown.

Sir Guy de Warre.

Like Ragnor's rocks. He swore that she should wed
Sir Ralph of Normanhurst,
His sister's son.
Would not the Holy Church deem her accursed,
Dared she defy his will and marry one
Of her own choice! Were't so, 'twere better she were dead!

"Dear father, mine," Rowena pleaded sore,
On bended knee, "The heart
Belongs to God.
To wed where hallowed love can; have no part
Were sin, deserving His all-chastening rod,
Whose blessing on such tie 'twere impious to implore."

"Sir Guy, my spouse, a mother's prayers, I too
Would blend with hers. O yield,
Our only child,
Possession sweet of woman's holy field—
Affection's glebe—a virgin soil denied
When wedlock makes those one whose hearts can ne'er beat true."

Sir Harold Wynn.

Sir Guy de Warre, the fair Rowena's sire,
Of haughty Norman birth,
With pure descent,
Held Saxon, high or low, as scum of earth;
And deemed his name more worth and honour lent,
Than line directly traced from Alfred could inspire.

Dark-visaged man, his countenance repelled;
His restless eyes flashed fire;
His voice sent dread
Through every soul that felt his fearful ire.
At its fell sound both beast and children fled.
Rowena, with her mother, hid till it had quelled.

Sir Harold dared his daughter's hand to seek!
No word the fierce knight spake
But ope'd the door,
And, scowling, said—"No Saxon churl shall make
Rowena wife; and dare he woo her more,
Upon him, would Sir Guy a direful vengeance wreak."

Sir Harold Spurned.

To sue and lose, his knightly soul might bear;
But insult galled him sore.
Should he imbrue
His puissant sword in her own father's gore?
That were to do a deed he e'er must rue;
Unfit it for a place in his Walhalla there.

No, better far to don the holy cross,
As valiant knight became;
Then if he fell,
He would at least have saved his honoured name;
Could say with life's last flitting breath—"'Tis well,
For so to live or die, to me were gain, not loss."

Yet spite of all, one