Escorted by a numerous retinue of her friends, the bride had come to the castle that morning. Noon was the nuptial hour. The gladsome procession now left the castle amidst the thunder of guns from the battlement, the shouts of the people, and the loud strains of music. It was a gay and gaudy spectacle: the plumed horses, the foot-cloths of velvet that swept the ground, the blaze of gold and jewels, the floating banners, the armed men!
Never had Eleanor looked so beautiful, as now, with blushing cheeks and downcast eyes, she was led along to the altar to wed the youth of her heart’s choice. The stormy time of sorrow was over, and the torch of love and hope burned purely bright.
In the brilliant sunshine the bridal party slowly approached the sacred fane, at whose altar two fond hearts were to be united for ever. Who could have foreseen this joyful hour when the young heir of Warkcliff had the cold world before him—a world without a friend?
And now the happy pair entered the church, and came before the altar and the priest. The blush of Eleanor grew deeper, and a tear of joy trembled in her downcast eye.
“Behold, while she before the altar stands,
Hearing the holy priest who to her speaks,
And blesseth her, with his uplifted hands,
How the red roses flush up in her cheeks.”
The rite was soon concluded, and Eleanor was the blissful bride of Stephen de Ermstein!
The End.