mblage, yet not one more winning or truthful.
The honest, pure heart shone from those mild blue eyes; one might know
_she_ could make any sacrifice for those she loved, and that guided
and guarded by her own innocence and steadfast truth, neither crowns
nor sceptres could daunt her from her noble purpose.

And there, too, was Effie. Not Effie, the Lily of St. Leonards, such
as she was when gayly tending her little flock on St. Leonard's
Craigs--not Effie, the poor, wretched criminal of the Tolbooth--but
Effie, the rich and beautiful Lady Staunton, receiving with all the
ease and elegance of a high-born dame the homage of the nobles
surrounding her, of whom none shone more conspicuous than his grace
the Duke of Argyle, on whose arm she was leaning.

With the step and bearing of a queen a noble lady now approached, and
as, unattended by knight or dame, she moved gracefully through the
brilliant crowd, every eye was turned on her with admiration.

Need I say it was Rebecca, the Jewess.

A rich turban of yellow silk, looped at the side by an aigrette of
diamonds, and confining a beautiful ostrich plume, was folded over her
polished brow, from which her long, raven tresses floated in beautiful
curls around her superb neck and shoulders. A simarre of crimson silk,
studded with jewels, and gathered to her slender waist by a
magnificent girdle of fine gold, reached below the hips, where it was
met by a flowing robe of silver tissue bordered with pearls. In
queenly dignity she was about to pass from the saloon, when the noble
Richard of the Lion Heart stepped hastily forward, and respectfully
saluted her. He still wore his sable armor, and with his visor thrown
back, had for some time been negligently reclining against one of the
lofty pillars, a careless spectator of the scene around him. The
lovely Jewess paused, and with graceful ease replied to the address of
the monarch; but at that moment the voice of Ivanhoe, speaking to
Rowena, fell on her ear--and with a hurried reverence to Coeur de Lion,
she glided from the apartment.

"No, Ivanhoe," thought I, "thou hast not done wisely--beautiful as is
the fair Rowena, to whom thy troth stands plighted--thou shouldst have
won the peerless Rebecca for thy bride."

I was aroused from the revery into which I had unconsciously fallen by
a hoarse voice at my elbow repeating a _Pater Noster_, and turning
around, I beheld the jovial Friar of Copmanhurst, one hand grasping a
huge oak