She was habited in deep mourning:  her heavy train swept gracefully over the dark pavement; her veil, in cumbrous folds, reached almost to her feet, effectually concealing her face from the eyes of the spectators.  A number of servitors, now entered, bearing the allotted viands, together with sundry articles of winter apparel.  The upper table was filled, and a profound silence showed the awe and respect which her presence inspired.  She raised her veil.  Grief, long subdued, yet deep and irremediable, hung heavily on her pallid features, but their form and character was untouched by the destroyer.  Not a ringlet was visible.  Her brow, bare and unornamented, threw an air of severe grandeur on her whole countenance.  Around the lip fell a deeper shade of sorrow; but sweet, inexpressibly sweet and touching, was the expression.  Though the rose had faded, yet, lovelier in decay, it seemed to mingle more gracefully with the soft hues by which it was surrounded.

She waved her hand:  singly the mendicants approached, proffering their simple tale of suffering and privation.  To every one she administered comfort; consoling the wretched and reproving the careless; but each had a share of her bounty ere he withdrew.

The hall was nearly cleared; yet the palmer sat, as if still awaiting audience, behind a distant pillar, and deeply pondering, as it might seem, the transactions he had witnessed.  The last of their suppliants had departed ere he rose, bending lowly as he approached.  The eye of the noble dame suddenly became rivetted on him.  She was leaning in front of her maidens, beside a richly-carved canopy of state, underneath which, on days of feudal hospitality and pomp, presided the master of the banquet.  Behind, a long and richly-variegated window poured down a chequered halo of glory around her form.  She seemed an angel of light, issuing from that fountain of splendour, and irradiating the whole group with her presence.

“Reverend pilgrim, thy behest?” She said this with a shudder of apprehension, as if dreading an answer to her inquiry.  The pilgrim spoke not, but advanced.

The attendants drew aside.  A silence, chill and unbroken as the grave, pervaded the assembly.  He took from his vest a silver ring.  The Lady Mabel grasped the well-known signet.  With agony the most heartrending and intense she exclaimed—­

“My husband’s signet!—­Where?—­Whence came this pledge?—­Speak!”

A pause ensued.  It was one of those short ages of almost insupportable suspense, when the mind, wound up to the keenest susceptibility of endurance, seems vibrating on the verge of annihilation,—­as if the next pulse would snap its connection with the world for ever.

“Lady,” the pilgrim answered, in a low sepulchral tone, “it is a bequest from thy husband.  It was his wife’s last pledge—­a seal of unchanging fidelity.  He bade me seek his dame, and say, ’His last sigh was to her—­his last wish to heaven.’”