The grave and contemplative mind of Warbeck had not been so contented with the honours of war but that it had sought also those calmer sources of emotion which were yet found among the sages of the East. He had drunk at the fountain of the wisdom of those distant climes, and had acquired the habits of meditation which were indulged by those wiser tribes from which the Crusaders brought back to the North the knowledge that was destined to enlighten their posterity. Warbeck, therefore, had little in common with the ruder chiefs around; he did not summon them to his board; nor attend at their noisy wassails. Often late at night, in yon shattered tower, his lonely lamp shone still over the mighty stream, and his only relief to loneliness was in the presence and the song of his soft cousin. Months rolled on, when suddenly a vague and fearful rumour reached the castle of Liebenstein. Otho was returning home to the neighbouring tower of Sternfels; but not alone. He brought back with him a Greek bride of surprising beauty, and dowered with almost regal wealth. Leoline was the first to discredit the rumour; Leoline was soon the only one who disbelieved. Bright in the summer noon flashed the array of horsemen; far up the steep ascent wound the gorgeous cavalcade; the lonely towers of Liebenstein heard the echo of many a laugh and peal of merriment. Otho bore home his bride to the hall of Sternfels. That night there was a great banquet in Otho’s castle; the lights shone from every casement, and music swelled loud and ceaselessly within. By the side of Otho, glittering with the prodigal jewels of the East, sat the Greek. Her dark locks, her flashing eye, the false colours of her complexion, dazzled the eyes of her guests. On her left hand sat the Templar. “By the holy rood,” quoth the Templar, gayly, though he crossed himself as he spoke, “we shall scare the owls to-night on those grim towers of Liebenstein. Thy grave brother, Sir Otho, will have much to do to comfort his cousin when she sees what a gallant life she would have led with thee.” “Poor damsel!” said the Greek, with affected pity, “doubtless she will now be reconciled to the rejected one. I hear he is a knight of a comely mien.” “Peace!” said Otho, sternly, and quaffing a large goblet of wine. The Greek bit her lip, and glanced meaningly at the Templar, who returned the glance. “Nought but a beauty such as thine can win my pardon,” said Otho, turning to his bride, and gazing passionately in her face. The Greek smiled. Well sped the feast, the laugh deepened, the wine circled, when Otho’s eye rested on a guest at the bottom of the board, whose figure was mantled from head to foot, and whose face was covered by a dark veil. “Beshrew me!” said he, aloud, “but this is scarce courteous at our revel: will the stranger vouchsafe to unmask?”