“For ever, lady, dost thou say? And who dropped Sir Osmund’s bands upon the altar? Nay, noble lady, be not offended, for I know that all affection is changeable, and short-lived, dying with a glance or a word; and husband is but a fashion, which to suit your taste may be changed, like any other part of your apparel. Changes are pleasant. Sir William to-day, Sir Osmund to-morrow! Woman’s love is not like man’s. Man’s love is the sea, infinite and exhaustless. It may ebb, and its sands be discovered, but soon the wave rolls over, and again there is the mighty deep. Far down, in unfathomable waters, are the crystal caves, for the heart’s whispers and embraces. Woman’s love is the streamlet. Bathe in its pure waters to-day;--return to-morrow, and it is dried up. Let the husband leave his halls, and in ten years he is forgotten, and his spirit would be driven from his own hearth!” Mabel’s eye had flashed with indignation, and her majestic form had become erect, and commanding. There was the proud heaving of her bosom, and the compressed resolution of her lips. But all symptoms of anger passed away, as a sigh escaped the palmer, and as his hand was raised to brush away a tear. “Holy man, these words are unkind; they are not the balm of comfort. I have not been faithless to Sir William. He is enshrined in my heart still, the holiest earthly image, which death alone can break. And oh! in penance how I worship him now, as sincerely as once I did in joy. Gaze upon all the little knolls of green, where we sat together, on summer days. I know them, and there I have gone, and asked pardon of my beloved, many a cold and dreary night. But here, in this room, I suffer agonies which might atone even for a wife’s infidelity to a living lord. The night before he left for the Holy Land, our noble mother told us of an ancestor’s perjury to the maiden of his troth. That is her portrait, holy father, on which you are gazing. In my waking moments, for past weeks, I have seen Magdalene Montfort (that was the beautiful maiden’s name) walking with Sir William. They were both sad, and looked upon me scornfully, for my treachery. They had been unfortunate, and, therefore, were in each other’s company. I knew that it was but fancy, but it had all the power of reality. Oh! is not this penance enough! But, say, holy palmer, didst thou ever see Sir William Bradshaigh?” The palmer sighed and shook his head. “Many a gallant knight I have known, who never reached his home. Some died, others were reported to be dead, and their noble heritage, aye, and their beautiful wives, became the property of strangers.” “_Reported_ to be dead! Reported! Were they not dead? Was _he_ not dead?” “Mabel. Mabel Bradshaigh--_is_ he dead?” And the palmer’s cloak was removed, and there stood Sir William Bradshaigh!