In the pale light sat the Abbess of St. Hilda. Closely she drew her veil
to hide the teardrops of pity. Near her was the Prioress of Tynemouth,
proud and haughty, yet white with awe. Next was the aged Abbot of St.
Cuthbert, or, as he was called, the "Saint of Lindisfarne." Before them,
under sentence, stood the guilty pair. One was a maiden who, disguised
in the dress of a page, had been taken from Marmion's train. The cloak
and hood could not conceal or mar her beauty. On the breast of her
doublet was Lord Marmion's badge, a falcon crest, which she vainly
attempted to conceal.

At the command of the Prioress, the silken band that fastened the young
girl's long, fair hair was undone, and down over her slender form fell
the rich golden ringlets. Before them stood Constance de Beverley, a
professed nun of Fontevraud. Lured by the love of Marmion, she had
broken her vow, and fled from the convent. She now stood so beautiful,
so calm, so pale, that but for the heaving breast and heavy breathing,
she might have been a form of wax wrought to the very life.

Her companion in misery was a sorry sight. This wretch, wearing frock
and cowl, was not ashamed to moan, to shrink, to grovel on the floor, to
crouch like a hound, while the accused frail girl waited her doom
without a sound, without a tear.

Well might she grow pale! In the dark wall were two niches narrow and
high. In each was laid a slender meal of roots, bread, and water. Close
to each cell, motionless, stood two haggard monks holding a blazing
torch, and displaying the cement, stones, and implements with which the
culprits were to be immured.

Now the blind old Abbot rose to speak the doom of those to be enclosed
in the new made tombs. Twice he stopped, as the woeful maiden, gathering
her powers, tried to make audible the words which died in murmurs on her
quivering lips. At length, by superhuman effort, she sent the blood,
curdled at her heart, coursing through every vein. Light came to her
eye, color to her cheek, and when the silence was broken, she gathered
strength at every word. It was a strange sight to see resolution so high
in a form so weak, so soft, so fair.

"I speak," she said, "not to implore mercy, for full well I know it
would be vain. Neither do I speak to gain your prayers, for a lingering,
living death within these walls will be a penance fit to cleanse my soul
of every sin. I speak not for myself, but for one whom I have wronged
though he ne