seeing only a sun-scorched desert, waste and bare, where no wave
murmured, no breeze sighed. Again she saw a loved form on the burning
sands: the dear dead, denied even the simplest rites of burial.

Now the vessel skirted the coast of mountainous Northumberland. Towns,
towers, and halls, successive rose before the delighted group of
maidens. Tynemouth's Priory appeared, and as they passed, the fair nuns
told their beads. At length the Holy Island was reached. The tide was at
its flood. Twice each day, pilgrims dry-shod might find their way to the
island; and twice each day the waves beat high between the island and
the shore, effacing all marks of pilgrim's staff and sandalled foot.

As the galley flew to the port, higher and higher, the castle and its
battled towers rose to view, a huge, solemn, dark-red pile. In Saxon
strength the massive arches broad and round, row on row, supported by
short, ponderous columns, frowned upon the approaching visitor. It stood
at the very water's edge, and had been built long before the birth of
Gothic architecture. On its walls the tempestuous sea and heathen Dane
alike had vainly poured their impious rage. For more than a thousand
years, wind, wave, and warrior had been held at bay. The deep walls of
the old abbey still stood worn but unsubdued.

As they drew near, the maidens raised St. Hilda's song. Borne on the
wind over the wave, their voices met a response of welcome in the chorus
which arose upon the shore. Soon, bearing banner, cross, and relic,
monks and nuns filed in order from the grim cloister down to the harbor,
echoing back the hymn. Among her maidens, conspicuous in veil and hood,
stood the Abbess, even then engaged in holy devotion.

When the reception at harbor and hall was over, and the evening banquet