When he was prison’d in Paynim land,
    That dame was far away,
  And none knew where; but all could guess—­
    Up rose the knight, and kept
  His hand close clutch’d on his dagger heft,
    And down the hall he stept;
  And onwards with the dagger bared,
    He rush’d to the lady’s bower—­
  ’Thou hast been false, and left thy home—­
    Thou diest this very hour!’
  ’Oh! it is true, I left my home;
    But yet, before I die,
  Oh! look not on me with face so changed,
    Nor with so fierce an eye! 
  Oh! let me, but for a minute’s space,
    Into my chamber hie;
  One prayer I would say for thee and me—­
    One prayer—­before I die!’
  She left the bower; and as he stept
    To and fro in ireful mood,
  A stranger from the chamber came,
    And close behind him stood. 
  Long locks of molten yellow gold
    Hung over his cheek so brown,
  And a red mantle of Venice silk,
    Fell from his shoulder, down. 
  Dark frown’d the knight—­’Vile churl!’ he said;
    But ere he utter’d more,
  The stranger let the mantle fall
    Unclasp’d upon the floor,—­
  And off he cast the yellow locks—­
    And, lo! the lady fair,
  Blushing and casting from her cheek
    Her glossy raven hair! 
  Down fell the dagger; down the knight
    Sank kneeling and opprest;
  And the lady oped her snow white arms,
    And wept upon his breast!”

“A foul song!—­a wanton woman!”—­exclaimed Sir Bryan de Barreilles—­“he should have stabbed her for living so long with a Jew villain like the Soldan of Bagdad.”

“Was the villain a Jew?” enquired Dr Howlet, who had caught the word.  “I did not know Bagdad was in Jewry.  Is a heathen the same as a Jew, Mr Peeper?”

The gentleman thus appealed to, coughed as if to clear his throat, and though he usually spoke with the utmost clearness, he mumbled and muttered in the same unintelligible manner as he had done when he was saying grace; and it was a very peculiar habit of the learned individual, whenever he was applied to for an explanation, to betake himself to a mode of speech that would have puzzled a far wiser head than Dr Howlet’s, to make head or tail of it.

Dr Howlett, however, appeared to be perfectly satisfied with the information; and by the indignant manner in which he struck his long gold-headed ebony walking-stick on the floor, seemed entirely to agree with the worthy knight in his estimate of the heroine of Phil Lorimer’s ballad.

“I like the ballad about the jousting of Romulus the bold Roman, with Judas Maccabaeus in the Camp at Ascalon far better,” said Hasket of Norland.  “Sing it, Phil.”

“No, no,” cried Maulerer, who was far gone in intoxication.  “Sing us the song of the Feasting at Glaston, when Eneas the Trojan married Arthur’s daughter.—­Sing the song, sirrah, this moment, or I’ll cut your tongue in two, to make your note the sweeter.—­Sing.”