ers had rendered so alluring to
the knightly bandits of the age.

The cousins resumed their old friendship, and Warbeck believed that it
was friendship alone. They walked again among the gardens in which
their childhood had strayed; they sat again on the green turf whereon
they had woven flowers; they looked down on the eternal mirror of the
Rhine;--ah! could it have reflected the same unawakened freshness of
their life's early spring!

The grave and contemplative mind of Warbeck had not been so contented
with the honours of war, but that it had sought also those calmer
sources of emotion which were yet found amongst the sages of the East.
He had drunk at the fountain of the wisdom of those distant climes, and
had acquired the habits of meditation which were indulged by those
wiser tribes from which the Crusaders brought back to the North the
knowledge that was destined to enlighten their posterity. Warbeck,
therefore, had little in common with the ruder chiefs around: he did
not summon them to his board, nor attend at their noisy wassails.
Often late at night, in yon shattered tower, his lonely lamp shone
still over the mighty stream, and his only relief to loneliness was in
the presence and the song of his soft cousin.

Months rolled on, when suddenly a vague and fearful rumour reached the
castle of Liebenstein. Otho was returning home to the neighbouring
tower of Sternfels; but not alone. He brought back with him a Greek
bride of surprising beauty, and dowered with almost regal wealth.
Leoline was the first to discredit the rumour; Leoline was soon the
only one who disbelieved.

Bright in the summer noon flashed the array of horsemen; far up the
steep ascent wound the gorgeous cavalcade; the lonely towers of
Liebenstein heard the echo of many a laugh and peal of merriment. Otho
bore home his bride to the hall of Sternfels.

That night there was a great banquet in Otho's castle; the lights shown
from every casement, and music swelled loud and ceaselessly within.

By the side of Otho, glittering with the prodigal jewels of the East,
sat the Greek. Her dark locks, her flashing eye, the false colours of
her complexion, dazzled the eyes of her guests. On her left hand sat
the Templar.

"By the holy rood," quoth the Templar, gaily, though he crossed himself
as he spoke, "we shall scare the owls to-night on those grim towers of
Liebenstein. Thy grave brother, Sir Otho, will have much to do to
comfort his co