The Moringer starts up and prays to his patron St. Thomas, to rescue him from the impending shame, which his devotion to his patron had placed him in danger of incurring. St. Thomas, who must have felt the justice of the imputation, performs a miracle. The Moringer's senses were drenched in oblivion, and when he waked he lay in a well-known spot of his own domain; on his right the Castle of his fathers, and on his left the mill, which, as usual, was built not far distant from the Castle. "He leaned upon his pilgrim's staff, and to the mill he drew-- So altered was his goodly form that none their master knew. The baron to the miller said, 'Good friend, for charity, Tell a poor pilgrim, in your land, what tidings may there be?' "The miller answered him again--'He knew of little news, Save that the lady of the land did a new bridegroom choose; Her husband died in distant land, such is the constant word, His death sits heavy on our souls, he was a worthy lord. "'Of him I held the little mill, which wins me living free-- God rest the baron in his grave, he aye was kind to me! And when St. Martin's tide comes round, and millers take their toll, The priest that prays for Moringer shall have both cope and stole.'" The baron proceeds to the Castle gate, which is bolted to prevent intrusion, while the inside of the mansion rung with preparations for the marriage of the lady. The pilgrim prayed the porter for entrance, conjuring him by his own sufferings, and for the sake of the late Moringer; by the orders of his lady, the warder gave him admittance. "Then up the hall paced Moringer, his step was sad and slow; It sat full heavy on his heart, none seemed their lord to know. He sat him on a lowly bench, oppressed with wo and wrong; Short while he sat, but ne'er to him seemed little space so long. "Now spent was day, and feasting o'er, and come was evening hour, The time was nigh when new made brides retire to nuptial bower, 'Our Castle's wont,' a bride's man said, 'hath been both firm and long-- No guest to harbour in our halls till he shall chant a song.'" When thus called upon, the disguised baron sung the following melancholy ditty:-- "'Chill flows the lay of frozen age,' 'twas thus the pilgrim sung, 'Nor golden mead, nor garment gay, unlocks his heavy tongue. Once did I sit, thou bridegroom gay, at board as rich as thine, And by my side as fair a bride, with all her charms, was mine. "'But time traced furrows on my face, and I grew silver hair'd, For locks of brown, and cheeks of youth, she left this brow and beard; Once rich, but now a palmer poor, I tread life's latest stage, And mingle with your bridal mirth the lay of frozen age.'"