he overthrew; an inarticulate mutter, accompanying every fresh attack, indicated impatience and disappointment. Suddenly he exclaimed, drawing forth a large roll, with ludicrous expressions of delight—
"I have thee, now! The buck's horns shall soon butt this great Welsh goat from his pen."
He opened the banner. It was the pennon of the Bradshaigh, thrown aside to rot in dust and decay.
"Don't tell Dan, nuncle, and thou shall see rare sport."
He said this with his usual familiarity of tone; but suddenly putting his mouth to the stranger's ear, he whispered. The words were inaudible, save to him for whom they were meant; and in an instant he darted from the spot, concealing the spoil amidst the folds of his apparel. Shortly afterwards Dan made his appearance. With wonder and dismay did he behold the ravages committed in his treasure-house—"confusion worse confounded."
"Beshrew me, but thou art a restless tenant. I did not tell thee to tumble my wardrobe into haycocks."
"I was long a-watching," said the pilgrim; "and, in good troth, I became over curious to know the capacity of thy sty. What tidings from my lady's chamber?"
"A plague on her husband's humours! Maude says it were as much as a Jew's thumb were worth to get thee privily to an audience, but she hath urged my lady to distribute the alms herself to-day; so betake thee to the kitchen; Maude will contrive thou shalt have some token of approach. St. Anthony! but thou hast bestirred thee bravely; such another guest, and I might as well set fire to the whole budget. If thou be'st bent on such another rummage in the kitchen, the cook will whack thy pate with the spit, holy and hooded though it be."
Dan led the way to this arena of gigantic gastronomy. It was a vast and smoky den, such as could only exist in those days of feudal magnificence. An immense furnace was fed by huge blocks of wood, which the ravening flame seized and in a moment enveloped in its embrace. Forms, grisly and indistinct, flitted past this devouring blaze, by the sputtering and crackling of which, mingled with the hissing delicacies before it, and the shrill scream of the presiding fury, a stranger might be warned of his approach to this pandemonium some time ere its wonders were visible. The pilgrim seated himself in an accessible corner, anxiously awaiting the promised signal.
On a long stone bench lay heaps of broken meat, ready for distribution to the groups of mendicants who were now clamouring without the gate. From the low and ponderous rafters hung dried mutton, bacon, and deer's tongues, wreathed in curls of smoke, that might seem to render an introduction to the chimney unnecessary for completing their flavour.
It was not long ere a pert waiting-maid approached. She drew up her short linsey-woolsey garments from the contaminations beneath her feet. Raising her chin, she thus addressed the servitors:—
"My lady bids ye bring the dole quickly into the great hall—She attends to-day in person. When the bell rings," looking towards the pilgrim as she spoke, "my lady leaves her chamber."
Maude departed with the same supercilious deportment. The bell was immediately heard, and the stranger, making the best of his way into the hall, found the doors wide open, and an indiscriminate assemblage of supplicants, displaying to the best advantage a variety of modes and manifestations of distress, unhappily not confined to those unhallowed days of wretchedness and misrule. Their chief attention seemed to be directed towards a side wicket, in the upper part of which was a slide for the more convenient distribution of the accustomed largess, when the Lady Mabel did not superintend the apportioning of her beneficence.
It was soon whispered amongst the crowd that she, who had for a considerable time kept aloof from all intercourse, would that day distribute her own bounty.
The tinkling of the bell ceased, and suddenly the door flew open. Lady Mabel and her maidens entered. The crowd fell back as she approached. Of a commanding form and deportment, she seemed a being of some superior creation; whilst, with slow and majestic steps, she passed on to the upper division of the hall, where the dais raised her slightly above the multitude.
She was habited in deep mourning: her heavy train swept gracefully over the dark pavement; her veil, in cumbrous folds, reached almost to her feet, effectually concealing her face from the eyes of the spectators. A number of servitors, now entered, bearing the allotted viands, together with sundry articles of winter apparel. The upper table was filled, and a profound silence showed the awe and respect which her presence inspired. She raised her veil. Grief, long subdued, yet deep and irremediable, hung heavily on her pallid features, but their form and character was untouched by the destroyer. Not a ringlet was visible. Her brow, bare and unornamented, threw an air of severe grandeur on her whole countenance. Around the lip fell a deeper shade of sorrow; but sweet, inexpressibly sweet and touching, was the expression. Though the rose had faded, yet, lovelier in decay, it seemed to mingle more gracefully with the soft hues by which it was surrounded.
She waved her hand: singly the mendicants approached, proffering their simple tale of suffering and privation. To every one she administered comfort; consoling the wretched and reproving the careless; but each had a share of her bounty ere he withdrew.
The hall was nearly cleared; yet the palmer sat, as if still awaiting audience, behind a distant pillar, and deeply pondering, as it might seem, the transactions he had witnessed. The last of their suppliants had departed ere he rose, bending lowly as he approached. The eye of the noble dame suddenly became rivetted on him. She was leaning in front of her maidens, beside a richly-carved canopy of state, underneath which, on days of feudal hospitality and pomp, presided the master of the banquet. Behind, a long and richly-variegated window poured down a chequered halo of glory around her form. She seemed an angel of light, issuing from that fountain of splendour, and irradiating the whole group with her presence.
"Reverend pilgrim, thy behest?" She said this with a shudder of apprehension, as if dreading an answer to her inquiry. The pilgrim spoke not, but advanced.
The attendants drew aside. A silence, chill and unbroken as the grave, pervaded the assembly. He took from his vest a silver ring. The Lady Mabel grasped the well-known signet. With agony the most heartrending and intense she exclaimed—
"My husband's signet!—Where?—Whence came this pledge?—Speak!"
A pause ensued. It was one of those short ages of almost insupportable suspense, when the mind, wound up to the keenest susceptibility of endurance, seems vibrating on the verge of annihilation—as if the next pulse would snap its connection with the world for ever.
"Lady," the pilgrim answered, in a low sepulchral tone, "it is a bequest from thy husband. It was his wife's last pledge—a seal of unchanging fidelity. He bade me seek his dame, and say, 'His last sigh was to her—his last wish to heaven.'"
Lady Mabel listened—every tone sunk like a barbed arrow to her heart. The voice resembled not that of her deceased husband, yet such was the deceptive influence arising from the painful irritation which her spirits had undergone, that, if reason had not forbidden, her fancy would have invested it with supernatural attributes—listening to it as though it were a voice from the tomb.
"For the love I bore and yet bear to his most honoured name, tell me—I conjure thee, tell me—his earthly resting-place. My last pilgrimage shall be thither. I will enshrine his hallowed relics, and they shall be a pledge of our union where we shall no more part."
The last words were spoken with a solemnity of expression awful and thrilling beyond the power of language to convey:
"What recks it, lady? thou hast gotten thee another," said the pilgrim.
"Another!—Oh name him not. Never, never!—most base,
