t pupil!" she said. "I pray you that
you will sing again."

"Nay, dear dame, it is turn and turn betwixt you and me. I beg that you
will recite a romance, you who know them all. For all the years that I
have listened I have never yet come to the end of them, and I dare swear
that there are more in your head than in all the great books which they
showed me at Guildford Castle. I would fain hear 'Doon of Mayence,' or
'The Song of Roland,' or 'Sir Isumbras.'"

So the old dame broke into a long poem, slow and dull in the inception,
but quickening as the interest grew, until with darting hands and
glowing face she poured forth the verses which told of the emptiness of
sordid life, the beauty of heroic death, the high sacredness of love and
the bondage of honor. Nigel, with set, still features and brooding eyes,
drank in the fiery words, until at last they died upon the old woman's
lips and she sank back weary in her chair.

Nigel stooped over her and kissed her brow. "Your words will ever be as
a star upon my path," said he. Then, carrying over the small table and
the chessmen, he proposed that they should play their usual game before
they sought their rooms for the night.

But a sudden and rude interruption broke in upon their gentle contest.
A dog pricked its ears and barked. The others ran growling to the door.
And then there came a sharp clash of arms, a dull heavy blow as from
a club or sword-pommel, and a deep voice from without summoned them to
open in the King's name. The old dame and Nigel had both sprung to their
feet, their table overturned and their chessmen scattered among the
rushes. Nigel's hand had sought his crossbow, but the Lady Ermyntrude
grasped his arm.

"Nay, fair son! Have you not heard that it is in the King's name?" said
she. "Down, Talbot! Down, Bayard! Open the door and let his messenger
in!"

Nigel undid the bolt, and the heavy wooden door swung outward upon its
hinges. The light from the flaring cressets beat upon steel caps and
fierce bearded faces, with the glimmer of drawn swords and the yellow
gleam of bowstaves. A dozen armed archers forced their way into the
room. At their head were the gaunt sacrist of Waverley and a stout
elderly man clad in a red velvet doublet and breeches much stained and
mottled with mud and clay. He bore a great sheet of parchment with a
fringe of dangling seals, which he held aloft as he entered.

"I call on Nigel Loring!" he cried. "I, the officer of the K