“Thy life is forfeit,” replied the unmoved priest; “thy life is forfeit, and thy words are folly. For who would trust a traitor to his liege lord, a deserter of his banner, and a denier of his faith? Death is before thee--death and immortality! Beware lest it be an immortality of evil and despair--of the flame that is unquenchable--of the worm that never dies! I say unto thee, ‘Put not thy trust in princes,’ but turn thee to Him who alone can say, ‘Thy sins be forgiven!’ Bend thy knee before the throne of grace; pluck out the bitterness from thine heart, and the pride from thy soul; and ’though thy sins be redder than scarlet, behold they shall be whiter than snow!’ Confess thy sins, and repent thee of thy transgressions, and He who died upon the mount for sinners, even he shall open unto thee the gates of everlasting life.” “It is too late,” replied the wretched culprit, “it is too late! If I die guilty, let the punishment light on those who shall have sent me to my last account. Away, priest! give me life, or leave me!” “Slave!” cried the indignant priest--“slave and coward, perish!--and be thy blood, and the blood of Him whom thou hast denied, upon thine own head!” Not another word was spoken. He knew that all was hopeless--that he must die, unpitied and despised; and in sullen silence he yielded himself to his fate. The executioners led him to the fatal tree: his arms were pinioned--the noose adjusted about his muscular neck. In dark and gloomy despair he looked for the last time around him. He gazed upon the lists, which had so often witnessed the display of his unrivalled horsemanship, and echoed to the applauses which greeted his appearance on the field of mimic war; he gazed on many a familiar and once-friendly face, all scowling on him in hatred and disdain. Heart-sick, hopeless, and dismayed, he closed his aching eyes; and, as he closed them, the trumpets, to whose cheering sound he had so often charged in glory, rang forth the signal of his doom! The pulleys creaked hoarsely--the rope was tightened even to suffocation--and the quivering frame struggled out its last agonies, amid the unheeded execrations of the infuriate multitude! “Sigh, nor word, nor struggling breath, Heralded his way to death: Ere his very thought could pray, Unanealed he passed away, Without a hope from mercy’s aid-- To the last, a renegade!” LEGENDS OF FEUDAL DAYS. THE FALSE LADYE. CHAPTER I.