Found a stately ship, that bore him safe Home to his own countrie. And his lady met him at the gate, His lady fair and young; And with a scream of pride and joy, She in his bosom hung. Oh, glad, glad was the Christian knight, And glad was his lady fair, And her pale cheek flush'd as he cast aside The locks of her raven hair, And kiss'd her brow, and told the tale Of his dungeon, deep and strong; And of the minstrel, too, he told And of the power of song. And they blest the minstrel, and blest his song, And soon the feast was dight; And prince and noble crowded in, To welcome home the knight. And when the brimming cup went round, Spoke out an evil tongue, And blamed that lady to her lord, That lady fair and young; And told, with many a bitter sneer, How that, for many a day, When he was prison'd in Paynim land, That dame was far away, And none knew where; but all could guess-- Up rose the knight, and kept His hand close clutch'd on his dagger heft, And down the hall he stept; And onwards with the dagger bared, He rush'd to the lady's bower-- 'Thou hast been false, and left thy home-- Thou diest this very hour!' 'Oh! it is true, I left my home; But yet, before I die, Oh! look not on me with face so changed, Nor with so fierce an eye! Oh! let me, but for a minute's space, Into my chamber hie; One prayer I would say for thee and me-- One prayer--before I die!' She left the bower; and as he stept To and fro in ireful mood, A stranger from the chamber came, And close behind him stood. Long locks of molten yellow gold Hung over his cheek so brown, And a red mantle of Venice silk, Fell from his shoulder, down. Dark frown'd the knight--'Vile churl!' he said; But ere he utter'd more, The stranger let the mantle fall Unclasp'd upon the floor,-- And off he cast the yellow locks-- And, lo! the lady fair, Blushing and casting from her cheek Her glossy raven hair! Down fell the dagger; down the knight Sank kneeling and opprest; And the lady oped her snow white arms, And wept upon his breast!" "A foul song!--a wanton woman!"--exclaimed Sir Bryan de Barreilles--"he should have stabbed her for living so long with a Jew villain like the Soldan of Bagdad." "Was the villain a Jew?" enquired Dr Howlet, who had caught the word. "I did not know Bagdad was in Jewry. Is a heathen the same as a Jew, Mr Peeper?" The gentleman thus appealed to, coughed as if to clear his throat, and though he usually spoke with the utmost clearness, he mumbled and muttered in the same unintelligible manner as he had done when he was saying grace; and it was a very peculiar habit of the learned individual, whenever he was applied to for an explanation, to betake himself to a mode of speech that would have puzzled a far wiser head than Dr Howlet's, to make head or tail of it.