The Prose Marmion | Page 6

their visitors, secure from
unhallowed eyes, roamed at will through each holy cloister, aisle,
gallery, and dome. Though it was a summer night, the evening fell
damp and chill, the sea breeze blowing cold, and the pure-minded girls
closed around the blazing hearth, each in turn to paint the glory of her
favorite saint.
While, round the fire, legends were rehearsed by the happy group, a
very different scene was taking place in a secret underground aisle,
where a council of life and death was being held. The spot was more
dark and lone than a dungeon cell. Light and air were excluded, as it
was a burial place for those who, dying in sin, might not be laid within
the Church. It was also a place of punishment, whence if a cry pierced
the upper air, the hearer offered a prayer, thinking he heard the
moaning of spirits in torment.
Few save the Abbot knew the place, and fewer still, the devious way by
which it was approached. When taken there, victims and judge were led
blindfold. The walls were rude rocks, the pavement, gravestones
sunken and worn. The noxious vapor, chilled into drops, fell tinkling on
the floor. An antique lamp, hanging from an iron chain, gave a dim
light, which strove with darkness and damp to show the horrors of the
scene. Here the three judges were met to pronounce the sentence of

doom.
In the pale light sat the Abbess of St. Hilda. Closely she drew her veil
to hide the teardrops of pity. Near her was the Prioress of Tynemouth,
proud and haughty, yet white with awe. Next was the aged Abbot of St.
Cuthbert, or, as he was called, the "Saint of Lindisfarne." Before them,
under sentence, stood the guilty pair. One was a maiden who, disguised
in the dress of a page, had been taken from Marmion's train. The cloak
and hood could not conceal or mar her beauty. On the breast of her
doublet was Lord Marmion's badge, a falcon crest, which she vainly
attempted to conceal.
At the command of the Prioress, the silken band that fastened the
young girl's long, fair hair was undone, and down over her slender form
fell the rich golden ringlets. Before them stood Constance de Beverley,
a professed nun of Fontevraud. Lured by the love of Marmion, she had
broken her vow, and fled from the convent. She now stood so beautiful,
so calm, so pale, that but for the heaving breast and heavy breathing,
she might have been a form of wax wrought to the very life.
Her companion in misery was a sorry sight. This wretch, wearing frock
and cowl, was not ashamed to moan, to shrink, to grovel on the floor, to
crouch like a hound, while the accused frail girl waited her doom
without a sound, without a tear.
Well might she grow pale! In the dark wall were two niches narrow and
high. In each was laid a slender meal of roots, bread, and water. Close
to each cell, motionless, stood two haggard monks holding a blazing
torch, and displaying the cement, stones, and implements with which
the culprits were to be immured.
Now the blind old Abbot rose to speak the doom of those to be
enclosed in the new made tombs. Twice he stopped, as the woeful
maiden, gathering her powers, tried to make audible the words which
died in murmurs on her quivering lips. At length, by superhuman effort,
she sent the blood, curdled at her heart, coursing through every vein.
Light came to her eye, color to her cheek, and when the silence was
broken, she gathered strength at every word. It was a strange sight to

see resolution so high in a form so weak, so soft, so fair.
"I speak," she said, "not to implore mercy, for full well I know it would
be vain. Neither do I speak to gain your prayers, for a lingering, living
death within these walls will be a penance fit to cleanse my soul of
every sin. I speak not for myself, but for one whom I have wronged
though he never did me wrong; one who, if living, is now an exile
under the ban of the King. I speak to clear the fair name of Ralph de
Wilton, and to accuse Lord Marmion of Fontenaye, the traitor, to
whose false words of love I listened when I left my veil and convent
dear.
"Long, weary days, I bowed my pride, and humbled my honor, to ride
as squire to this false knight, who daily promised me marriage. To be
his slave, hoping to be his wife, I forfeited all peace on earth, all hope
beyond the grave; but when he met the betrothed of Ralph de Wilton,
the