, as soon as she had recovered from her fit: "is he
come?"

"Not thy lover, Maude, but thine uncle--that is, his soul. For the
love of heaven, listen to me: I have been frying in purgatory for a
year past, and should have been in heaven but for the want of a single
ave."

"I will say it for thee tomorrow, uncle."

"Tonight, or never."

"Well, tonight be it:" and she requested the devil Mercurius to give
her the prayer-book, from under the table; but he had no sooner
touched the holy book than he dropped it with a shriek and a yell. "It
was hotter," he said, "than his master Sir Lucifer's own particular
pitchfork." And the lady was forced to begin her ave without the aid
of her missal.

At the commencement of her devotions the demon retired, and carried
with him the anxious soul of poor Sir Roger de Rollo.

The lady knelt down--she sighed deeply; she looked again at the clock,
and began--

"Ave Maria."

When a lute was heard under the window, and a sweet voice singing--

"Hark!" said Matilda.

"Now the toils of day are over,
And the sun hath sunk to rest,
Seeking, like a fiery lover,
The bosom of the blushing west--

"The faithful night keeps watch and ward,
Raising the moon, her silver shield,
And summoning the stars to guard
The slumbers of my fair Mathilde!"

"For mercy's sake!" said Sir Rollo, "the ave first, and next the
song."

So Matilda again dutifully betook her to her devotions, and began--

"Ave Maria gratia plena!" but the music began again, and the prayer
ceased of course.

"The faithful night! Now all things lie
Hid by her mantle dark and dim,
In pious hope I hither hie,
And humbly chant mine ev'ning hymn.

"Thou art my prayer, my saint, my shrine!
(For never holy pilgrim kneel'd,
Or wept at feet more pure than thine),
My virgin love, my sweet Mathilde!"

"Virgin love!" said the Baron. "Upon my soul, this is too bad!" and he
thought of the lady's lover whom he had caused to be hanged.

But _she_ only thought of him who stood singing at her window.

"Niece Matilda!" cried Sir Roger, agonizedly, "wilt thou listen to the
lies of an impudent page, whilst thine uncle is waiting but a dozen
words to make him happy?"

At this Matilda grew angry: "Edward is neither impudent nor a liar,
Sir Uncle, and I will listen to the end of the song."

"Come away," said Mercurius; "he hath yet got wield, field, seal