“Gramercy!” exclaimed Lord Marmion.  “Loth would I be to take Friar John, if this Palmer will lead us as far as Holy-Rood.  I’ll pay him not in beads and cockle shells, but in ‘angels’ fair and good.  I love such holy ramblers.  They know how to charm each weary hill with song or romance.

    “’Some jovial tale, or glee, or jest,
     They bring to cheer the way.’”

“Ah! sire,” said young Selby, as he laid his finger on his lip in token of silence, “this man knows more than he has ever learned from holy lore.  Last night, we listened at his cell, and strange things we heard.  He muttered on till dawn.  No conscience clear and void of evil intent remains so long awake to pray.”

“Let it pass,” cried Marmion.  “This man and he only shall guide me on my way, though he and the arch fiend were sworn friends.  So, please you, gentle youth, call this Palmer to the castle hall.”

Little did Marmion dream that the Palmer was Ralph de Wilton, his deadliest foe, in disguise—­Ralph de Wilton, his rival in love, whom Marmion had accused of treason, had caused to be sent into exile, and whom he supposed dead.

A moment later the Palmer appeared, clad in a black mantle and cowl, and wearing on his shoulders the keys of St. Peter cut in cloth of red.  His cap, bordered with scallop shells, fitted close to his head, and over all was drawn the cowl.  His sandals were travel-worn.  In his hands he bore a staff and palm branch, emblems of the pilgrim from the holy land.  No lord or knight was there in the hall who had a more stately step, none who looked more proud.  He waited not for salutation, but strode across the hall of state, and fronted Marmion, as peer meets peer.  Beneath the cowl was a face so wan, so worn, a cheek so sunken, and an eye so wild, that the mother would not have known her child, much less Marmion, his rival.

Danger, travel, want, and woe soon change the form.  Deadly fear can outstrip time; toil quenches the fire of youth; and despair traces wrinkles deeper than old age.

    “Happy whom none of these befall;
     But this poor Palmer knew them all.”

Lord Marmion made known his request, and the Palmer took upon himself the task of guide, on condition that they set out without delay, saying: 

    “’But I have solemn vows to pay
      And may not linger by the way;
      Saint Mary grant that cave or spring
      May back to peace my bosom bring,
      Or bid it throb no more!’”

Then the page, on bended knee, presented to each guest in turn the massive silver bowl of wassail, “the midnight draught of sleep,” rich with wine and spices.  Lord Marmion drank, “Sound sleep to all”; the earl pledged his noble guest; all drained it merrily except the Palmer.  He alone refused, although Selby urged him most courteously.  The feast was over, the sound of minstrel hushed.  Nought was heard in the castle but the slow footsteps of the guard.