“Well,” returned the palmer in firm accents, and he seemed to unbuckle some of his garments, whilst unconsciously he stamped in fury.
The boys tapped at the lattice.
“Mother, open unto us. Here is a holy priest, and he will comfort thee. He hath already blessed us, and so kindly. He hath wandered in far-off lands, and his voice speaks a foreign tale, and speaks it gently.”
Her small white hands opened the lattice.
“Stay for a moment, and the holy man shall be admitted. Long is it, since religion was allowed to enter mine apartments, to cheer my sadness; and now it has come to my cell. Cell!”
The lattice closed. The palmer stood in strange bewilderment. Her face seemed to be a vision, and her voice a song of other days, and all—not a dream. And why should he think of other and former days? Have priests and palmers boyhood and youth? Are they not trees without a leaf, on which no bird of heaven alights to charm the solitude? Do they know of the earthly transports of love and hope? Beautiful is the holy Virgin—but cold and hard are the stones where they kneel to worship her. And why should England be the country to excite his feelings? He had travelled through lands more fair. Greener was the earth’s bosom, and more beautiful the sky’s face. Why should he be moved at the sorrows of the noble matron? At the same hour of twilight, when bathing his wearied feet in the little stream, afar from the glistening tents on the mountain tops, he had listened to the mournful song of the wandering Hebrew maid. He had passed by her and laid his hands upon the high and noble brow blessing her beauty and her sorrows. And why should he feel the ideal presence of romance, as he looked upon the woody hills of Haigh. From the gorgeous mosques he had beheld the Mount of Olives, and the feet of the prophet-girls dancing there, while their light scarfs were hung, floating on the trees which crowned the summit, like the garments of angels—the airy clouds.
The door was slowly opened. Lady Mabel, as they entered, greeted her boys, and kindly welcomed the holy man. As he took her extended hand, a shuddering seized him; he averted his face, and caught a glimpse of Sir Osmund dismounting, under the casement. For a few moments, overcome by some strong emotions, he leaned upon his palmer’s staff.
Meanwhile, gentle readers, be pleased to shut the door of the gallery behind you, and walk down, leaning, as gently as possible, on the Chronicler’s palsied arm. Do not extinguish the light,—else we are left in total darkness, on the dangerous corridor. Let us approach to serve the Welsh knight, who is now shouting lustily for his servants to appear, and take his horse.
“Ho! my Welshmen,” and he blew his hunting horn; but they appeared not.