The Prose Marmion | Page 5

train, their Lord the
last. Then loudly rang the trumpet call; Thundered the cannon from the
wall, And shook the Scottish shore; Around the castle eddied slow,
Volumes of smoke as white as snow, And hid its turrets hoar; Till they
rolled forth upon the air, And met the river breezes there."
[Illustration: THE LIBRARY, ABBOTSFORD.]
CHAPTER II.
The breeze which swept away the rolling smoke from Norham, curled
not the Tweed alone. Far upon Northumbrian waters, it blew fresh and
strong, bearing on its wings a barque from the Abbey of Whitby on the
coast of Yorkshire, sailing to St. Cuthbert's at Lindisfarne, on Holy Isle.
"The merry seamen laugh'd to see Their gallant ship so lustily Furrow
the green sea-foam. Much joy'd they in their honor'd freight; For, on the
deck, in chair of state, The Abbess of Saint Hilda placed, With five fair
nuns, the galley graced.
"'T was sweet to see these holy maids, Like birds escaped to
green-wood shades, Their first flight from the cage; How timid, and
how curious, too, For all to them was strange and new, And all the
common sights they view, Their wonderment engage."
Light-hearted were they all, except the Abbess and the novice Clare.
Fair, kind, and noble, the Abbess had early taken the veil. Her hopes,
her fears, her joys, were bounded by the cloister walls; her highest
ambition being to raise St. Hilda's fame. For this she gave her ample
fortune--to build its bowers, to adorn its chapels with rare and quaint
carvings, and to deck the relic shrine with ivory and costly gems. The
poor and the pilgrim blessed her bounty and shelter.

Her pale cheek and spare form were made more striking by the black
Benedictine garb. Vigils and penitence had dimmed the luster of her
eyes. Though proud of her religious sway and its severity, she loved her
maidens and was loved by them in return.
The purpose of the present voyage was most unhappy, and to the
Abbess most painful. She came to Lindisfarne upon the summons of St.
Cuthbert's Abbot, to hold with him and the Prioress of Tynemouth an
inquisition on two apostates from the faith, if need were, to condemn
them to death.
On the galley's prow sat the unhappy sister Clare, young and beautiful,
lovely and guileless, as yet a nun unprofessed. She had been betrothed
to Ralph de Wilton, whom she supposed now dead, or worse, a
dishonored fugitive. After the disgrace brought upon her lover, Clare
had been commanded by her guardians to give her hand to Lord
Marmion, who loved her for her lands alone. Heartbroken at the fate of
her true-love, and to escape this hateful marriage, she was about to take
the vestal vow, and in the gloom of St. Hilda hide her blasted hopes,
her youth and beauty.
As the vessel glided over the waters, she gazed into their depths, seeing
only a sun-scorched desert, waste and bare, where no wave murmured,
no breeze sighed. Again she saw a loved form on the burning sands: the
dear dead, denied even the simplest rites of burial.
Now the vessel skirted the coast of mountainous Northumberland.
Towns, towers, and halls, successive rose before the delighted group of
maidens. Tynemouth's Priory appeared, and as they passed, the fair
nuns told their beads. At length the Holy Island was reached. The tide
was at its flood. Twice each day, pilgrims dry-shod might find their
way to the island; and twice each day the waves beat high between the
island and the shore, effacing all marks of pilgrim's staff and sandalled
foot.
As the galley flew to the port, higher and higher, the castle and its
battled towers rose to view, a huge, solemn, dark-red pile. In Saxon
strength the massive arches broad and round, row on row, supported by

short, ponderous columns, frowned upon the approaching visitor. It
stood at the very water's edge, and had been built long before the birth
of Gothic architecture. On its walls the tempestuous sea and heathen
Dane alike had vainly poured their impious rage. For more than a
thousand years, wind, wave, and warrior had been held at bay. The
deep walls of the old abbey still stood worn but unsubdued.
As they drew near, the maidens raised St. Hilda's song. Borne on the
wind over the wave, their voices met a response of welcome in the
chorus which arose upon the shore. Soon, bearing banner, cross, and
relic, monks and nuns filed in order from the grim cloister down to the
harbor, echoing back the hymn. Among her maidens, conspicuous in
veil and hood, stood the Abbess, even then engaged in holy devotion.
When the reception at harbor and hall was over, and the evening
banquet ended, the vestal maidens and