“My son,” said the dame, “thou hast now to leave a mother, a wife, and a home, for the Holy Land. Gaze upon these faces of your race, whilst I recount the deeds for which they have been distinguished. Catch courage, from the tale, and let a mother rejoice in her boy.”
“Mother,” the knight replied, “I am my father’s son, and I wear my father’s sword; but more, I am Sir William Bradshaigh! I need not to seek, at present, courage from the valour of my forefathers. I have long known their faces, and can sum up their achievements. I have played here in boyhood, but, in their hallowed presence, never could I play with any thing save a sword. From all their stern array of features, I have turned to look upon that sweet lady, who, so I have heard the worthy friar say, was not one of our race.”
“My son, wouldst thou know her history? But see here, Mabel has followed thee. God bless ye both, my children.”
“Sir William, why hast thou uncourteously left the feast and me?” asked Mabel, in a fond and chiding tone.
“Hush, Mabel, our mother is to rehearse the fate of the beautiful girl.”
He led them to the middle of the gallery, and pointed to the portrait of a young female. There was nothing but enthusiastic beauty and love, beaming on her countenance, and her bosom was exposed, after the fashion of the times. Her brow was noble and open, and although the ringlets were thrown back all around, there was nothing stern; all was so gentle and sweet. Her lips seemed to open a promised heaven, and the moonbeams flickered around and gleamed upon them like the fiery cherubim at the gates of Paradise, to guard the sweet fruit of the knowledge of good and love. There was a mingled expression of archness and simplicity, and the bright head seemed to toss itself in coquetry, and deny what the loving eyes confessed. A light drapery covered the arms, to the elbow, and the under part was naked, whilst the pretty fingers might have been thought to be playing with the rays, which danced upon the canvass. Oh! Beauty! how powerful are thy charms, even by the painter’s art! Whilst living in thyself, thou commandest the worship of genius, wisdom, and valour, and all their trophies are laid at thy feet. Their hand is placed upon the sounding harp, their hand turns over the records of old sages, their hand is died in blood, only to win a smile from thee! The Angel of death, is heaven’s painter of thee, and he sketches thine undecaying form, in the light of our dreams. And even in the illusion of a noble art, for ages thou receivest homage, as free from hypocrisy, as from sinister motives, and in the sigh and the tear, accompanying our glance, thy memory speaks and moves!
Sir William and his lady, could have knelt and prayed for happiness on the fate of that young female, as if it were yet in the future. Their mother, after a short pause, seated herself opposite, and began the tale.
‘When the lion-hearted Richard of England went to the Holy Land, not a braver and more handsome knight was in his train, than the youthful De Norris, your grandsire, Mabel. He was accomplished in all the arts of peace and war. His trophy of the one, is that Paynim standard, which hangs on the wall in decayed tatters; and of the other, the love and the heart of that beautiful girl, Magdalene Montfort, his young cousin.