The Prose Marmion | Page 8

draw from himself the sullen scowl of the Palmer, Marmion called
upon his favorite squire:
"'Fitz-Eustace, knows't thou not some lay To speed the lingering night
away?'"
The youth made an unhappy choice. He had a rich, mellow voice, and
chose the wild, sad ballad often sung to Marmion by the unfortunate
Constance de Beverley. When all was quiet, quiveringly the notes fell
upon the air:

SONG.
"Where shall the lover rest, Whom the fates sever From his true
maiden's breast, Parted forever? Where early violets die Under the
willow.
"There through the summer day, Cool streams are laving There while
the tempests sway, Scarce are boughs waving; There thy rest shalt thou
take, Never again to awake, Never, O never!
"Where shall the traitor rove, He, the deceiver, Who could win
maiden's love, Win and then leave her? In the lost battle, Borne down
by the flying, Where mingles war's rattle With groans of the dying.
"His warm blood the wolf shall lap, Ere life be parted. Shame and
dishonor sit By his grave ever; Blessing shall hallow it-- Never, O
never!"
The melancholy sound ceased. The song was sad, and bitterly it fell on
the false-hearted Marmion. Well he knew that at his request the faithful
but misguided Constance had been taken to Lindisfarne to be punished
for crime committed through her mistaken love for him. As if he
already saw disgrace for himself and death for her, he drew his mantle
before his face, and bent his head upon his hands. Constance de
Beverley at that moment was dying in her cell.
The meanest groom in all the train could scarce have wished to
exchange places with the proud Marmion, could his thoughts have been
known. Controlling himself, and raising his head, he said:
"As you sang, it seemed that I heard a death knell rung in mine ear.
What is the meaning of this weird sound?"
Then for the first time the Palmer broke his silence, and said in reply:
"It foretells the death of a loved friend."
Utterance, for once, failed the haughty Marmion, whose pride
heretofore could scarcely brook a word even from his King. His glance

fell, his brow flushed, for something familiar in the tone or look of the
speaker so struck the false heart that he was speechless.
Before his troubled imagination rose a vision of the lovely Constance,
beautiful and pure as when, trusting his treacherous words, she left the
peaceful walls of her convent. He knew she was now a captive in
convent cell, and the strange words of the Palmer, added to the song of
the squire, had made him unhappy. "Alas!" he thought, "would that I
had left her in purity to live, in holiness to die." Twice he was ready to
order, "To horse," that he might fly to Lindisfarne and command that
not one golden ringlet of her fair head be harmed, and twice he thought,
"They dare not. I gave orders that she should be safe, though not at
large."
While thus love and repentance strove in the breast of the lord, the
landlord began a weird tale, suggested by the speech of the Palmer. As
Marmion listened, he gathered from the legend that not far from where
they sat, a knight might learn of future weal or woe. He might,
perchance, meet "in the charmed ring" his deadliest foe, in the form of
a spectre, and with it engage in mortal combat. If victorious over this
supernatural antagonist, the omen was victory in all future
undertakings.
"Marmion longed to prove his chance; In charmed ring to break a
lance."
The yeomen had drunk deep; the ale was strong, and at a sign from
their master, all sought rest on the hostel floor before the now dying
embers. For pillow, under each head, was quiver or targe. The
flickering fire threw fitful shadows on the strange group. Marmion and
his squires retired to other quarters. Where the Palmer had disappeared,
none knew or cared.
Alone, folded in his green mantle and nestling in the hay of a waste loft,
lay Fitz-Eustace, the pale moonlight falling upon his youthful face and
form. He was dreaming happy dreams of hawk and hound, of ring and
glove, of lady's eyes, when suddenly he woke. A tall form, half in the
moonbeams, half in the gloom, stood beside him; but before he could

draw his dagger, he recognized the voice of Marmion, who said:
"Fitz-Eustace, rise, and saddle Bevis! I cannot rest. The air must cool
my brow. I fain would ride to view the elfin scene of chivalry of which
we heard to-night. Rouse none from their slumbers, for I would not
have those prating knaves know that I could credit so wild a tale as our
landlord has told."