Few save the Abbot knew the place, and fewer still, the devious way by which it was approached.  When taken there, victims and judge were led blindfold.  The walls were rude rocks, the pavement, gravestones sunken and worn.  The noxious vapor, chilled into drops, fell tinkling on the floor.  An antique lamp, hanging from an iron chain, gave a dim light, which strove with darkness and damp to show the horrors of the scene.  Here the three judges were met to pronounce the sentence of doom.

In the pale light sat the Abbess of St. Hilda.  Closely she drew her veil to hide the teardrops of pity.  Near her was the Prioress of Tynemouth, proud and haughty, yet white with awe.  Next was the aged Abbot of St. Cuthbert, or, as he was called, the “Saint of Lindisfarne.”  Before them, under sentence, stood the guilty pair.  One was a maiden who, disguised in the dress of a page, had been taken from Marmion’s train.  The cloak and hood could not conceal or mar her beauty.  On the breast of her doublet was Lord Marmion’s badge, a falcon crest, which she vainly attempted to conceal.

At the command of the Prioress, the silken band that fastened the young girl’s long, fair hair was undone, and down over her slender form fell the rich golden ringlets.  Before them stood Constance de Beverley, a professed nun of Fontevraud.  Lured by the love of Marmion, she had broken her vow, and fled from the convent.  She now stood so beautiful, so calm, so pale, that but for the heaving breast and heavy breathing, she might have been a form of wax wrought to the very life.

Her companion in misery was a sorry sight.  This wretch, wearing frock and cowl, was not ashamed to moan, to shrink, to grovel on the floor, to crouch like a hound, while the accused frail girl waited her doom without a sound, without a tear.

Well might she grow pale!  In the dark wall were two niches narrow and high.  In each was laid a slender meal of roots, bread, and water.  Close to each cell, motionless, stood two haggard monks holding a blazing torch, and displaying the cement, stones, and implements with which the culprits were to be immured.

Now the blind old Abbot rose to speak the doom of those to be enclosed in the new made tombs.  Twice he stopped, as the woeful maiden, gathering her powers, tried to make audible the words which died in murmurs on her quivering lips.  At length, by superhuman effort, she sent the blood, curdled at her heart, coursing through every vein.  Light came to her eye, color to her cheek, and when the silence was broken, she gathered strength at every word.  It was a strange sight to see resolution so high in a form so weak, so soft, so fair.

“I speak,” she said, “not to implore mercy, for full well I know it would be vain.  Neither do I speak to gain your prayers, for a lingering, living death within these walls will be a penance fit to cleanse my soul of every sin.  I speak not for myself, but for one whom I have wronged though he never did me wrong; one who, if living, is now an exile under the ban of the King.  I speak to clear the fair name of Ralph de Wilton, and to accuse Lord Marmion of Fontenaye, the traitor, to whose false words of love I listened when I left my veil and convent dear.