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“ He feared God but little-man not at all.”
WILLIAM OF MALMSBURY
James G. Grant
IN THREE VOLUMES
SAUNDERS AND OTLEY, CONDUIT STREET
R U FUS.
* Show me the noblest youth of present time,
Whose trembling fancy would to love give birth ;
The brightest star of ages yet to be,
She was a Phantom of delight
And though a Spirit yet, and bright
CONSTANCE DE MOWBRAY followed with her eye the disappearing Abbess and attendant, until the gloom of the postern hid them, then turned to her remaining companion, and in a tone which seemed to annihilate years, and make the past the present, uttered the single word “Raymond !”
It was an appeal from the restraint and formality which had yet hung with a chilling heaviness upon their greeting, -an appeal so eloquent, that the youth felt the blood rush to his brow, and knew not, perhaps, what fell from his lips, as they faltered forth the answering exclamation—“ Noble lady!"
“ Noble lady!" she repeated, in accents of kindly reproach. “Oh, time and change! Once, Raymond, it was not thus! Why have we driven the Lady, Abbess from her garden? True," she added, looking around—“'tis but a. sorry
paradiseless fair, by the blushing of a thousand flowers, than mine at Bamborough— that little plot but why, why do I recall it ? here, at least, the hand of culture is sometimes feebly busy—there, doubtless, all hath long been trampled into dust, desolateness oblivion."
“The mailed hand and the armed heel," said Raymond, “ give sorry tendance to garden beauty.—Evil visitants ! they sow not, neither do they plant. Seven winters, Lady Constance"
“ Seven winters,” interrupted the lady,“ have done much. They have frozen all that to my heart was once dear and genial. To me they have made Bamborough itself a haunted pile, darkened with terror and suspicion ;-a thing of icy halls and cells-gloomy and voiceless chambers, where the tempests of the Cheviots beat unrepelled, and drift their benumbing snows even into the very bosoms that throbbed faithfully around the hearth-stone of my childhood !"
“ Not into mine, Constance !” exclaimed Cæur d'Acier, startled out of his reserve,—"not into mine : far other tempests have beat there, but