The Prose Marmion | Page 7

Lady Clare, when he learned of her vast wealth and broad lands,
when he saw her face more fair than mine, he foreswore his faith. I,
Constance, was beloved no more. It is an old story, often told.
"The King approved the scheme of Marmion. Vainly de Wilton pleaded
his right to the hand of Clare, and when all fair means were exhausted,
Ralph was accused of treason. By my woman's unworthy hand, at the
command of Marmion, was forged the papers which sealed de Wilton's
fate. The two men fought in mortal combat.
"'Their prayers are prayed, Their lances in the rest are laid.'
"The result was told by the loud cry, 'Marmion! Marmion! De Wilton
to the block!' Justice seemed dead, for he, ever loyal in love and in faith,
was overthrown by the falsehearted. This packet will prove de Wilton
innocent of treason, how innocent, these letters alone can tell, and I
now give them to the sacred care of the Abbess of St. Hilda. Guard
them with your life, till they rest in the hands of the King."
She paused, gathered voice and strength and proceeded:
"The Lady Clare hated the name of Marmion, mourned her dishonored

lover, and fled to the convent of Whitby. The King, incensed at her
action, declared she should be his favorite's bride even though she were
a nun confessed. Marmion was sent to Scotland and I, cast off,
determined to plan a sure escape for Clare and for myself. This false
monk, whom you are about to condemn with me, promised to carry to
Clare the drugs by means of which she would soon have been the bride
of heaven. His cowardice has undone us both, and I now reveal the
story of the crime, that none may wed with Marmion, that his perfidy
may be made known to the King, who, when he reads these letters, will
see his favorite deserves the headsman's axe. Now, men of death, do
your worst. I can suffer and be still.
"'And come he slow, or come he fast, It is but death who comes at
last.'"
The old Abbot raised his 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