,
For all to them was strange and new,
And all the common sights they view,
Their wonderment engage."

Light-hearted were they all, except the Abbess and the novice Clare.
Fair, kind, and noble, the Abbess had early taken the veil. Her hopes,
her fears, her joys, were bounded by the cloister walls; her highest
ambition being to raise St. Hilda's fame. For this she gave her ample
fortune--to build its bowers, to adorn its chapels with rare and quaint
carvings, and to deck the relic shrine with ivory and costly gems. The
poor and the pilgrim blessed her bounty and shelter.

Her pale cheek and spare form were made more striking by the black
Benedictine garb. Vigils and penitence had dimmed the luster of her
eyes. Though proud of her religious sway and its severity, she loved her
maidens and was loved by them in return.

The purpose of the present voyage was most unhappy, and to the Abbess
most painful. She came to Lindisfarne upon the summons of St. Cuthbert's
Abbot, to hold with him and the Prioress of Tynemouth an inquisition on
two apostates from the faith, if need were, to condemn them to death.

On the galley's prow sat the unhappy sister Clare, young and beautiful,
lovely and guileless, as yet a nun unprofessed. She had been betrothed
to Ralph de Wilton, whom she supposed now dead, or worse, a dishonored
fugitive. After the disgrace brought upon her lover, Clare had been
commanded by her guardians to give her hand to Lord Marmion, who loved
her for her lands alone. Heartbroken at the fate of her true-love, and
to escape this hateful marriage, she was about to take the vestal vow,
and in the gloom of St. Hilda hide her blasted hopes, her youth and
beauty.

As the vessel glided over the waters, she gazed into their depths,
seeing only a sun-scorched desert, waste and bare, where no wave
murmured, no breeze sighed. Again she saw a loved form on the burning
sands: the dear dead, denied even the simplest rites of burial.

Now the vessel skirted the coast of mountainous Northumberland. Towns,
towers, and halls, successive rose before the delighted group of
maidens. Tynemouth's Priory appeared, and as they passed, the fair nuns
told their beads. At length the Holy Island was reached. The tide was at
its flood. Twice each day, pilgrims dry-shod might find their way to the
island; and twice each day the waves beat high between the island and
the shore, effacing all marks of pilgrim's staff and sandalle