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"Benvolio! knowest thou, that what I have once said, I will not unsay, although the great Atlas stood between me and my fixed purpose! I will not brook opposition, not even from thee, whom most I--" A pause ensued, and the voice of Lady Margaret died away in silence; some one glided from the gothic steps of the armory; it was the shadow of a male figure, tall and gigantic!

"That is the signal for our approach," uttered the page. "The Lady Margaret has dispatched her nocturnal visitor, and is now at liberty to receive you. It was the priest, Benvolio, who went hence, and he will return no more: let us, therefore, hasten to the lady, who now expects your coming."

At this instant, the door of the armory was thrown open, and the Lady Margaret advanced to meet the page, and the herald of the great St. Julian; and, (but that his eye had glanced on things more terrible, and sights more appalling) that which saluted him on his first entrance into this gothic chamber might have blanched the cheeks of less courageous hearts, with strange and fearful fancies. For there were trophies of departed heroes in abundance lay scattered around this gloomy pile. In mouldering heaps, they exhibited human skeletons, broken lances, swords, bucklers, and shields, helmets, and coats of mail, in one prodigious mass, were piled one upon the other; while various Implements of war, and even death, rendered (as if by design) conspicuous to the eye of the beholder, on his entrance there. A human skull and hour-glass stood on a marble table, and the book of the Holy Scriptures was placed beneath it; over which, was a crimson canopy of the most costly velvet, richly bordered with

gold, and a cushion of the same beneath it. A couch was also stationed beneath this hallowed spot, from whence the Lady Margaret had slowly arisen, to meet the page of St. Julian; and, with a stately frown and haughty demeanor, she addressed him thus:

"Gallant and brave thou art, although it is thy fortune to wield thy goodly sword in the service of a proud presumptuous minion-the minion of a race, puerile and weak-blind and infatuated: because the idol whom they worship, hath the form of a godlike hero, and the tongue of soft and smiling eloquence. Thou knowest this, Sir Walter, nor meanly wilt deny, that more St. Julian owes to the goodly graces that adorn his person, than to his martial courage o'er the conquered troops which now lay scattered on the plains."

"Save you, gentle lady," uttered Sir Walter De Ruthen, "I came not hither to dispute that point. With a beauteous lady to contend, were beneath a man, unworthy of a soldier! such sports I leave to beardless boys and pretty women: but by your leave, my noble lady, I have a matter for your private ear, in which St. Julian bears no part: I beseech you, let your page retire, and give me audience."

"First tell me, what that matter doth concern," uttered the Lady Margaret, looking on Sir Walter with an eye of dark suspicion.

To which, St. Julian's page bluntly replied,

"That were to tell thee, lady, all I know: think not I sell my words for courtesy like this. What can the great Margaret fear? Unarmed I came beneath your battlements to sue for favours: my vassals, only four in number, who attended me hither, now repose in peaceful slumbers beneath your castle walls. They

wage no war with great Albino's lady !---or if they did,--what would it avail? your guards would do their duty, and they would needs perish beneath their gallant swords: besides, I wot, my gentle dame, we are your prisoners! we cannot go hence without your goodly leave! what can you fear? Dismiss your page, and give me liberty to speak without reserve, of such things as materially concern you and your pious counsellor and friend, that good and virtuous holy man, Benvolio!"

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«ILL fares the land, to hastening ills a prey,
Where wealth accumulates, and men decay:
Princes and Lords may flourish or may fade;
A breath can make them, as a breath has made.
But a bold peasantry, their country's pride,
When once destroyed, can never be supplied."
GOLDSMITH.

"

NO sooner was the name of Benvolio pronounced, by Sir Walter De Ruthen, than an instantaneous change took place in the countenance of the haughty and austere Lady Margaret Albino; which no art could disguise, no species of hypocrisy could conceal, from the keenly penetrating glance which was now directed towards her by St. Julian's page. And she

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