usin when she sees what a gallant life she would have led
with thee."

"Poor damsel," said the Greek, with affected pity, "doubtless she will
now be reconciled to the rejected one. I hear he is a knight of a
comely mien."

"Peace!" said Otho, sternly, and quaffing a large goblet of wine.

The Greek bit her lip, and glanced meaningly at the Templar, who
returned the glance.

"Nought but a beauty such as thine can win my pardon," said Otho,
turning to his bride, and gazing passionately in her face.

The Greek smiled.

Well sped the feast, the laugh deepened, the wine circled, when Otho's
eye rested on a guest at the bottom of the board, whose figure was
mantled from head to foot, and whose face was covered by a dark veil.

"Beshrew me!" said he, aloud, "but this is scarce courteous at our
revel: will the stranger vouchsafe to unmask?"

These words turned all eyes to the figure, and they who sat next it
perceived that it trembled violently; at length it rose, and walking
slowly, but with grace, to the fair Greek, it laid beside her a wreath
of flowers.

"It is a simple gift, ladye," said the stranger, in a voice of such
sweetness that the rudest guest was touched by it. "But it is all I
can offer, and the bride of Otho should not be without a gift at my
hands. May ye both be happy!"

With these words, the stranger turned and passed from the hall silent
as a shadow.

"Bring back the stranger!" cried the Greek, recovering her surprise.
Twenty guests sprang up to obey her mandate.

"No, no!" said Otho, waving his hand impatiently. "Touch her not, heed
her not, at your peril."

The Greek bent over the flowers to conceal her anger, and from amongst
them dropped the broken half of a ring. Otho recognised it at once; it
was the broken half of that ring which he had broken with his
betrothed. Alas, he required not such a sign to convince him that that
figure, so full of ineffable grace, that touching voice, that simple
action so tender in its sentiment, that gift, that blessing, came only
from the forsaken and forgiving Leoline.

But Warbeck, alone in his solitary tower, paced to and fro with
agitated steps. Deep, undying wrath at his brother's falsehood mingled
with one burning, one delicious hope. He confessed now that he had
deceived himself when he thought his passion was no more; was there any
longer a bar to his union with Leoline?

In that delicacy which was breathed into him by his love, he had