h its
fretted pillars, and lowering domes, and candles, and incense, and
blazing altar, and great pictures looking down from the walls athwart
the gorgeous gloom. And right in front, above the altar, the colossal
Christ, watching unmoved from off the wall, his right hand raised to
give a blessing--or a curse!

On, up the nave, fresh shreds of her dress strewing the holy
pavement--up the chancel steps themselves--up to the altar--right
underneath the great, still Christ; and there even those hell-hounds
paused....

She shook herself free from her tormentors, and, springing back, rose
for one moment to her full height, naked, snow-white against the dusky
mass around--shame and indignation in those wide, clear eyes, but not
a stain of fear. With one hand she clasped her golden locks around her,
the other long, white arm was stretched upward toward the great, still
Christ, appealing--and who dare say, in vain?--from man to God. Her
lips were opened to speak; but the words that should have come from them
reached God's ear alone; for in an instant Peter struck her down, the
dark mass closed over her again, ... and then wail on wail, long, wild,
ear-piercing, rang along the vaulted roofs, and thrilled like the
trumpet of avenging angels through Philammon's ears.

Crushed against a pillar, unable to move in the dense mass, he pressed
his hands over his ears. He could not shut out those shrieks! When would
they end? What in the name of the God of mercy were they doing? Tearing
her piecemeal? Yes, and worse than that. And still the shrieks rang
on, and still the great Christ looked down on Philammon with that calm,
intolerable eye, and would not turn away. And over his head was written
in the rainbow, "I am the same, yesterday, to-day, and forever!" The
same as he was in Judaea of old, Philammon? Then what are these, and in
whose temple? And he covered his face with his hands and longed to die.

It was over. The shrieks had died away into moans; the moans to silence.

"Death Stands Above Me."

Death stands above me, whispering low
I know not what into my ear;
Of this strange language all I know
Is, there is not a word of fear.

--_Walter Savage Landor_.

The Tournament

BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.

(_Arranged by Maude Herndon._)

[The scene from Ivanhoe is of the description of the grand
tournament, held by Prince John Lockland, at Ashby, in which
Robin Hood, un