"The sunbeam came on a billow of flame,
But its light, like thine, is done:
Life's tangled coil, with all its toil,
Is broken ere 'tis run.
"The kite may love the timid dove,
The hawk be the raven's guest;
But none shall dare that hawk to scare
From his dark and cloud-wreathed nest!
"Wail on, ye fond maidens,
Death lurks in the cloud;
The storm and the billow
Are weaving a shroud:
"There's a wail on the wind;
Ere its track on the main,
A light shall be quenched,
Ne'er to kindle again!"
"Surely I have heard that voice aforetime," thought De Poininges. It was
too peculiar for him to mistake. The woman had loitered in his path a
few hours before. It seemed her brain was somewhat disturbed: a wanderer
and an outcast in consequence, she had here taken shelter ofttimes for
the night. He determined to accost her; a feeling of deference prompted
him, a superstitious notion, arising from an idea then prevalent, that a
superior light was granted to those individuals in whom the light of
reason was extinct. He approached with caution, much to the terror and
distress of his companion.
"It is crazy Isabel," said he, "and the dark spirit is upon her!" But De
Poininges was not in a mood to feel scared with this intimation. The way
was intricate, and he stumbled over a heap of dried fuel. The noise
seemed to arrest her attention for a moment; but she again commenced her
song, paying little heed to this interruption. On recovering his
position, he was about to speak, when, to his great surprise, she thus
accosted him:--
"I have tarried long for thee. Haste--equip for the battle,--and then,
"'My merry men all,
Round the greenwood tree,
How gallant to ride
With a gay ladye.'
"I am crazed, belike. Good wot; but I can ride o'er the neck of a proud
prior.
"'And the moon shone clear
In the blue heavens, where
The stars twinkle through her veil of light:--
There they gave me a merry shooting star,
And I rolled round the wain with my golden car,
But I leapt on the lightning's flash, beside
The queen of this murky night!'"
"Crazed, indeed!" thought De Poininges.
"Hush," said she: "I'll tell thee a secret." She drew a light from some
concealed recess, and flashing it full in the face of the intruder,
seemed to enjoy the effect wonderfully. On a sudden her brow wrinkled,
and the dark billows came over her spirit as she exclaimed--
"But,
"'Thou hast work to do,
Or we may rue
The thieving trade.'
"Go to--I must be calm. The spirit goeth forth, and I may not wander
again. But my poor head: it burns here--here!" And she put her hand
tenderly on that of De Poininges, raising it to her brow, which throbbed
violently. She started back, as from some sudden recollection, gazing
intently on his countenance.
"I know it--the vision tarrieth not. Now," she said--crossing herself
with great solemnity, and with apparent composure, as if all trace of
her malady had disappeared--"we must away. Follow; yet will I first set
yon rogue to watch." She sought the terrified man of canticles, and,
speaking in a low tone, raised her hand as though with some terrible
denunciation in case of disobedience. Immediately she returned, and,
pointing to a heap of loose stuff, began to throw it aside.
"Here--here!"
But De Poininges hesitated, thinking it a somewhat dubious adventure to
follow a mad woman, it might be, in quest of her wits. Seeing his
unwillingness to proceed, she whispered something in his ear which
wrought a marvellous change. He looked as if petrified with wonder, but
he followed now without shrinking. They entered by a narrow door,
curiously concealed. On its closing after them, De Poininges and his
companion seemed shut out from the world,--as if the link were suddenly
broken which bound them to earth and its connections.
The first sensation was that of dullness and damp, accompanied by a
mouldering vapour, like that from the charnel-house or the grave. Their
way was down a winding and broken staircase; at the bottom a straight
passage led them on to a considerable distance. Damps oozing from the
walls made the path more and more tiresome and slippery as they
proceeded. Shortly it became channelled with slime, and absolutely
loathsome. The bloated reptile crawled across their path; and De
Poininges beheld stone coffins piled on each side of the vault. Passing
these, another flight of steps brought them to a low archway, at the
extremity of which a grated door, now unbarred, led into a cell
seemingly contrived as a place of punishment for the refractory or
sinning brethren, who might be doomed to darkness and solitude as an
expiation of their offence. The only furniture it contained was a
wretched pallet, on which, as the light flashed doubtfully, De Poininges
thought he beheld a female. He snatched the light, and eagerly bent over
the couch. With a shout of joy he exclaimed--
"Be praised, ye saints, 'tis she!"
It was the wasted and squalid form of Margaret de la Bech. She raised
her eyes towards him, but they were vacant and wandering. It was soon
evident that her reason was impaired, and the spirit still inhabiting
that lovely tenement was irrevocably obscured. Cruel had been her
sufferings. Crimes too foul to name--but we draw a veil over the
harrowing recital! When the last horrible act was consummated the light
of her soul was put out, and her consciousness extinguished.
To meet thus! A living inhumation, where the body exists but as the
spirit's sepulchre! It were better they had been consigned to oblivion,
shut up and perishing in the dark womb of the grave. The cry of
vengeance had gone up, but was offered in vain for a season. The present
period of existence was not allotted for its fulfilment. It was
permitted to this monster that he should yet triumph unpunished--his
measure of iniquity was not yet full.
The limbs of the unconscious sufferer were pinioned:--the fiend-like
mercy of her tormentors prevented her own hands from becoming the
instruments of her release. De Poininges restored her to freedom; but
alas! she knew it not. The thick veil which Heaven's mercy drew upon her
spirit rendered her insensible to outward impressions. He raised her in
his arms, bearing her forth from that loathed scene of darkness and
disgrace; and when the pure breath of the skies once more blew upon her,
it seemed as though it awakened up a faint glimmer in the dying lamp.
She looked round with eagerness, and De Poininges thought some ray of
intelligence began to brighten, as objects again appeared to develop
their hidden trains of association on the memory; but the light was
mercifully extinguished ere she could discover the fearful realities of
her despair, and she again relapsed into hopeless and utter inanity.
They were still loitering in the little shed, the clerk groaning out a
sad and mournful chant. De Poininges appeared unable to arouse himself
to the exigencies of the moment, when Isabel, wildly waving her torch
towards the entrance, cried--
"To horse--to horse! They will be here presently. Already has the raven
snuffed your carcase--
"'But the bolt whistled through
The heavens blue,
And Sir Lionel lay on the battle-field.'"
She seemed to hearken, as though in apprehension of approaching
footsteps. De Poininges, roused from this dangerous stupor, prepared to
escape ere the prior's emissaries had intelligence of her removal.
They had passed the rivulet in safety, and had just gained the wood
near to where the attendants lay in wait with the horses, when an arrow
whizzed past De Poininges. For him the shaft was intended, but its
destiny was otherwise--the unfortunate chanter lay stretched on the
ground in his last agony. De Poininges flew on with redoubled speed.
"Treachery!" he cried. His men knew the signal, and galloped towards
him; but their aid was too late. A shack-bolt, aimed with a sure hand,
pierced him at this moment.
"Take her--Margaret de la Bech! The prior--a murderer--ravisher! Fly
to"--
The remaining words fell unuttered. His faithful attendants bore off the
lifeless body, together with the hapless Margaret, who was soon placed
in safety, far from the relentless fangs of the Prior of Burscough.
Fearful and undeniable was the testimony and accusation they brought,
but in vain. No effort was spared to bring upon this monster the just
recompense of his crime; yet, from the great scandal which a public
execution must have drawn upon the Church, but more especially from the
great influence he possessed amongst the nobles and chief dignitaries of
the land, not only did he escape unpunished, but he received the king's
most gracious pardon, in the twenty-first year of Edward the Third: so
true are the following words from an historian of that reign:--
"These men had so entrenched themselves in privileges and immunities,
and so openly challenged an exemption from all secular jurisdiction,
that no civil penalty could be inflicted on them for any malversation in
office, and even treason itself was declared to be no canonical
offence."