The lady was beautiful, but, at the same time, she was an unwilling bride,—­every one could see that; but the bridegroom cared not for that.  There was a sealed sorrow on her brow,—­a sorrow that seemed sincere and lasting; but she spoke not of it to any one,—­her lips were seldom parted.  She loved another.  Yes; she loved one who was far away, fighting in the wars of his country,—­one who was not so rich in lands as her present bridegroom.

When he left her, she remembered his promise; it was, to fight on till he earned a fortune, or name that should give him some right to claim her hand, even from her imperious father.  But alas! he came not; and what could she do against the commands of one who would be obeyed?  Her mother, too, was a proud, haughty woman, one whose sole anxiety was to increase the grandeur and power of her house by such connections.

Thus it was pressed on by circumstances, she could no longer hold out, more especially as she heard nothing of her knight.  She knew not where he was, or indeed if he were living or dead.  She knew not he was never named.  This last circumstance, indeed, gave her pain; for it assured her that he whom she loved had been unable to signalize himself from among other men.  That, in fact, he was unknown in the annals of fame, as well as the probability that he had been slain in some of the earlier skirmishes of the war.  This, if it had happened, caused her some pain to think upon; not but such events were looked upon with almost indifference by females, save in such cases where their affections were engaged, as on this occasion.  But the event was softened by the fact that men were continually falling by the hand of man in such encounters, but at the same time it was considered an honourable and praiseworthy death for a soldier.  He was wounded, but not with the anguish we now hear of; for the friends were consoled by the reflection that the deceased warrior died covered with glory.

Bertha, however, was young, and as yet she knew not the cause of her absent knight’s silence, or why he had not been heard of among the most forward in the battle.

“Heaven’s will be done,” she exclaimed; “what can I do?  I must submit to my father’s behests; but my future life will be one of misery and sorrow.”

She wept to think of the past, and to dream of the future; both alike were sorrowful to think upon—­no comfort in the past and no joy in the future.

Thus she wept and sorrowed on the night of the first tournament; there was to be a second, and that was to be the grand one, where her intended bridegroom was to show himself off in her eyes, and take his part in the sport.

* * * * *

Bertha sat late—­she sat sorrowing by the light of the lamps and the flickering flame of the fire, as it rose and fell on the hearth and threw dancing shadows on the walls.

“Oh, why, Arthur Home, should you thus be absent?  Absent, too, at such a time when you are more needed than ever.  Alas, alas! you may no longer be in the land of the living.  Your family is great and your name known—­your own has been spoken with commendation from the lips of your friend; what more of fame do you need? but I am speaking without purpose.  Heaven have mercy on me.”