“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 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.