Lady Mabel listened—­every tone sunk like a barbed arrow to her heart.  The voice resembled not that of her deceased husband, yet such was the deceptive influence arising from the painful irritation which her spirits had undergone, that, if reason had not forbidden, her fancy would have invested it with supernatural attributes—­listening to it as though it were a voice from the tomb.

“For the love I bore and yet bear to his most honoured name, tell me—­I conjure thee, tell me—­his earthly resting-place.  My last pilgrimage shall be thither.  I will enshrine his hallowed relics, and they shall be a pledge of our union where we shall no more part.”

The last words were spoken with a solemnity of expression awful and thrilling beyond the power of language to convey: 

“What recks it, lady? thou hast gotten thee another,” said the pilgrim.

“Another!—­Oh name him not.  Never, never!—­most base, most cruel.  He took advantage of my bereavement—­a moment of weakness and maternal terror.  By what long ages of suffering and wretchedness has it been repaid!  Better I had beheld my babes wasting with hunger, than have mated with this unpitying husband for a home and a morsel of bread!”

A flush of proud scorn at her own weakness overspread her features.  It was but momentary.  She bade the attendants withdraw.  Looking round for this purpose, she was aware, for the first time, of the hated presence of Roger de Cliderhow, watching, with considerable surprise, for the result of this unexpected interview.  He departed with the retinue, leaving Lady Mabel and the pilgrim for a while unobserved.

“Thou art a holy and a heaven-destined man, yet surely thou hast been taught to share another’s sorrows—­to pour the oil of compassion over the wounds of the penitent and broken-hearted.”  The lady turned aside her head—­she leaned over the chair for support, whilst one hand pressed her throbbing temples.

“Mabel Bradshaigh!” It was the voice of Sir William.  She started as at a summons from the tomb.  No other form was visible but that of the pilgrim bending over his staff.  Her eye wandered wildly around the hall, as if she expected some phantom to start from its recesses.  A richly-fretted screen, behind which the minstrels and lookers-on occasionally sat at the festival, stood at the lower end of the apartment.  A slight rustling was heard; she was about to rush towards the spot, when the voice was again audible, and apparently at her side.  Slowly the hood of the pilgrim was uplifted.  He threw off his disguise; but oh, how changed was the once athletic form of Sir William Bradshaigh!  With a wild and piercing shriek she flew towards the outstretched arms of her husband; but ere they met, a figure stepped between, barring their approach.  It was the ungainly person of Sir Osmund Neville.

“Nay, nay, seek thy leman elsewhere, thou gay palmer.  It were a brave honour, truly, to graft me with thy favours.”  With this brutish speech he was proceeding to lay hands on the lady, who stood stupefied in amaze, and bereft of power to offer the least resistance.