The Prose Marmion | Page 4

hut. He knows
each castle, town and tower in which the ale and wine are good. He
now seldom leaves these walls, but, perchance, in your guard he will
go."

In the pause that followed, young Selby, nephew of the Earl of Norham,
respectfully said, "Kind uncle, unhappy we, if harm came to Friar John.
When time hangs heavy in the hall, and the snow lies deep at Christmas
tide, when we can neither hunt nor joust, who will sing the carols, and
sweep away the stake at bowls? Who will lead the games and gambols?
Let Friar John in safety fill his chimney corner, roast hissing crabs, or
empty the flagons. Last night, there came to Norham Castle a fitter
guide for Lord Marmion."
"Nephew," said Sir Hugh, "well hast thou spoke. Say on."
"There came here, direct from Rome, one who hath visited the blessed
tomb, and worshipped in each holy spot of Arabia and Palestine. He
hath been on the hills where rested Noah's Ark; he hath walked by the
Red Sea; in Sinai's Wilderness, he saw the mount where Moses
received the law. He knows the passes of the North, and is on his way
to distant shrines beyond the Forth. Little he eats, and drinks only of
stream or lake. He is a fit guide for moor and fell."
"Gramercy!" exclaimed Lord Marmion. "Loth would I be to take Friar
John, if this Palmer will lead us as far as Holy-Rood. I'll pay him not in
beads and cockle shells, but in 'angels' fair and good. I love such holy
ramblers. They know how to charm each weary hill with song or
romance.
"'Some jovial tale, or glee, or jest, They bring to cheer the way.'"
"Ah! sire," said young Selby, as he laid his finger on his lip in token of
silence, "this man knows more than he has ever learned from holy lore.
Last night, we listened at his cell, and strange things we heard. He
muttered on till dawn. No conscience clear and void of evil intent
remains so long awake to pray."
"Let it pass," cried Marmion. "This man and he only shall guide me on
my way, though he and the arch fiend were sworn friends. So, please
you, gentle youth, call this Palmer to the castle hall."
Little did Marmion dream that the Palmer was Ralph de Wilton, his

deadliest foe, in disguise--Ralph de Wilton, his rival in love, whom
Marmion had accused of treason, had caused to be sent into exile, and
whom he supposed dead.
A moment later the Palmer appeared, clad in a black mantle and cowl,
and wearing on his shoulders the keys of St. Peter cut in cloth of red.
His cap, bordered with scallop shells, fitted close to his head, and over
all was drawn the cowl. His sandals were travel-worn. In his hands he
bore a staff and palm branch, emblems of the pilgrim from the holy
land. No lord or knight was there in the hall who had a more stately
step, none who looked more proud. He waited not for salutation, but
strode across the hall of state, and fronted Marmion, as peer meets peer.
Beneath the cowl was a face so wan, so worn, a cheek so sunken, and
an eye so wild, that the mother would not have known her child, much
less Marmion, his rival.
Danger, travel, want, and woe soon change the form. Deadly fear can
outstrip time; toil quenches the fire of youth; and despair traces
wrinkles deeper than old age.
"Happy whom none of these befall; But this poor Palmer knew them
all."
Lord Marmion made known his request, and the Palmer took upon
himself the task of guide, on condition that they set out without delay,
saying:
"'But I have solemn vows to pay And may not linger by the way; Saint
Mary grant that cave or spring May back to peace my bosom bring, Or
bid it throb no more!'"
Then the page, on bended knee, presented to each guest in turn the
massive silver bowl of wassail, "the midnight draught of sleep," rich
with wine and spices. Lord Marmion drank, "Sound sleep to all"; the
earl pledged his noble guest; all drained it merrily except the Palmer.
He alone refused, although Selby urged him most courteously. The
feast was over, the sound of minstrel hushed. Nought was heard in the
castle but the slow footsteps of the guard.

At dawn the chapel doors unclosed, and after a hasty mass from Friar
John, a rich repast was served to knight and squire.
"Lord Marmion's bugles blew to horse: Then came the stirrup-cup in
course; Between the Baron and his host No point of courtesy was lost;
Till, filing from the gate, had passed That noble