ace? How pale his cheek! How bright his eye! His heart must be
set only on his soul's salvation."

To chase away the gloom gradually stealing over the company, and to draw
from himself the sullen scowl of the Palmer, Marmion called upon his
favorite squire:

"'Fitz-Eustace, knows't thou not some lay
To speed the lingering night away?'"

The youth made an unhappy choice. He had a rich, mellow voice, and chose
the wild, sad ballad often sung to Marmion by the unfortunate Constance
de Beverley. When all was quiet, quiveringly the notes fell upon the
air:

SONG.

"Where shall the lover rest,
Whom the fates sever
From his true maiden's breast,
Parted forever?
Where early violets die
Under the willow.

"There through the summer day,
Cool streams are laving
There while the tempests sway,
Scarce are boughs waving;
There thy rest shalt thou take,
Never again to awake,
Never, O never!

"Where shall the traitor rove,
He, the deceiver,
Who could win maiden's love,
Win and then leave her?
In the lost battle,
Borne down by the flying,
Where mingles war's rattle
With groans of the dying.

"His warm blood the wolf shall lap,
Ere life be parted.
Shame and dishonor sit
By his grave ever;
Blessing shall hallow it--
Never, O never!"

The melancholy sound ceased. The song was sad, and bitterly it fell on
the false-hearted Marmion. Well he knew that at his request the faithful
but misguided Constance had been taken to Lindisfarne to be punished for
crime committed through her mistaken love for him. As if he already saw
disgrace for himself and death for her, he drew his mantle before his
face, and bent his head upon his hands. Constance de Beverley at that
moment was dying in her cell.

The meanest groom in all the train could scarce have wished to exchange
places with the proud Marmion, could his thoughts have been known.
Controlling himself, and raising his head, he said:

"As you sang, it seemed that I heard a death knell rung in mine ear.
What is the meaning of this weird sound?"

Then for the first time the Palmer broke his silence, and said in reply:
"It foretells the death of a loved friend."

Utterance, for once, failed the haughty Marmion, whose pride heretofore
could scarcely brook a word even from his King. His glance fell, his
brow flu