ar:
And shouts rose fast upon the wind,
Which told that the foe was near.

"Oh! let not," he said, "while yet I live,
The cruel foe me take:
But with thy sweet lips a last kiss give,
And cast me in the lake."

Around his neck she wound her arms,
And she kissed his lips so pale:
And evermore the war's alarms
Came louder up the vale.

She drew him to the lake's steep side,
Where the red heath fringed the shore;
She plunged with him beneath the tide,
And they were seen no more.

Their true blood mingled in Kingslea Mere,
That to mingle on earth was fain:
And the trout that swims in that crystal clear
Is tinged with the crimson stain.

"Thus you see how good comes of evil, and how a holy friar may fare
better on fast-day for the violent death of two lovers two hundred
years ago. The inference is most consecutive, that wherever you catch
a red-fleshed trout, love lies bleeding under the water: an occult
quality, which can only act in the stationary waters of a lake, being
neutralised by the rapid transition of those of a stream."

"And why is the trout shyer for that?" asked Sir Ralph.

"Do you not see?" said brother Michael. "The virtues of both lovers
diffuse themselves through the lake. The infusion of masculine valour
makes the fish active and sanguineous: the infusion of maiden modesty
makes him coy and hard to win: and you shall find through life, the fish
which is most easily hooked is not the best worth dishing. But yonder
are the towers of Arlingford."

The little friar stopped. He seemed suddenly struck with an awful
thought, which caused a momentary pallescence in his rosy complexion;
and after a brief hesitation, he turned his galloway, and told his
companions he should give them good day.

"Why, what is in the wind now, brother Peter?" said Friar Michael.

"The lady Matilda," said the little friar, "can draw the long-bow. She
must bear no goodwill to Sir Ralph; and if she should espy him from her
tower, she may testify her recognition with a cloth-yard shaft. She is
not so infallible a markswoman, but that she might shoot at a crow and
kill a pigeon. She might peradventure miss the knight, and hit me, who
never did her any harm."

"Tut, tut, man," said brother Michael, "there is no such fear."

"Mass," said the little friar, "but there is such a fear, and very
strong too. You who have it not may keep your way, and I who have it
shall ta