On the galley’s prow sat the unhappy sister Clare, young and beautiful, lovely and guileless, as yet a nun unprofessed.  She had been betrothed to Ralph de Wilton, whom she supposed now dead, or worse, a dishonored fugitive.  After the disgrace brought upon her lover, Clare had been commanded by her guardians to give her hand to Lord Marmion, who loved her for her lands alone.  Heartbroken at the fate of her true-love, and to escape this hateful marriage, she was about to take the vestal vow, and in the gloom of St. Hilda hide her blasted hopes, her youth and beauty.

As the vessel glided over the waters, she gazed into their depths, seeing only a sun-scorched desert, waste and bare, where no wave murmured, no breeze sighed.  Again she saw a loved form on the burning sands:  the dear dead, denied even the simplest rites of burial.

Now the vessel skirted the coast of mountainous Northumberland.  Towns, towers, and halls, successive rose before the delighted group of maidens.  Tynemouth’s Priory appeared, and as they passed, the fair nuns told their beads.  At length the Holy Island was reached.  The tide was at its flood.  Twice each day, pilgrims dry-shod might find their way to the island; and twice each day the waves beat high between the island and the shore, effacing all marks of pilgrim’s staff and sandalled foot.

As the galley flew to the port, higher and higher, the castle and its battled towers rose to view, a huge, solemn, dark-red pile.  In Saxon strength the massive arches broad and round, row on row, supported by short, ponderous columns, frowned upon the approaching visitor.  It stood at the very water’s edge, and had been built long before the birth of Gothic architecture.  On its walls the tempestuous sea and heathen Dane alike had vainly poured their impious rage.  For more than a thousand years, wind, wave, and warrior had been held at bay.  The deep walls of the old abbey still stood worn but unsubdued.

As they drew near, the maidens raised St. Hilda’s song.  Borne on the wind over the wave, their voices met a response of welcome in the chorus which arose upon the shore.  Soon, bearing banner, cross, and relic, monks and nuns filed in order from the grim cloister down to the harbor, echoing back the hymn.  Among her maidens, conspicuous in veil and hood, stood the Abbess, even then engaged in holy devotion.

When the reception at harbor and hall was over, and the evening banquet ended, the vestal maidens and their visitors, secure from unhallowed eyes, roamed at will through each holy cloister, aisle, gallery, and dome.  Though it was a summer night, the evening fell damp and chill, the sea breeze blowing cold, and the pure-minded girls closed around the blazing hearth, each in turn to paint the glory of her favorite saint.

While, round the fire, legends were rehearsed by the happy group, a very different scene was taking place in a secret underground aisle, where a council of life and death was being held.  The spot was more dark and lone than a dungeon cell.  Light and air were excluded, as it was a burial place for those who, dying in sin, might not be laid within the Church.  It was also a place of punishment, whence if a cry pierced the upper air, the hearer offered a prayer, thinking he heard the moaning of spirits in torment.