doublet was Lord Marmion's badge, a falcon crest, which she vainly
attempted to conceal.

At the command of the Prioress, the silken band that fastened the young
girl's long, fair hair was undone, and down over her slender form fell
the rich golden ringlets. Before them stood Constance de Beverley, a
professed nun of Fontevraud. Lured by the love of Marmion, she had
broken her vow, and fled from the convent. She now stood so beautiful,
so calm, so pale, that but for the heaving breast and heavy breathing,
she might have been a form of wax wrought to the very life.

Her companion in misery was a sorry sight. This wretch, wearing frock
and cowl, was not ashamed to moan, to shrink, to grovel on the floor, to
crouch like a hound, while the accused frail girl waited her doom
without a sound, without a tear.

Well might she grow pale! In the dark wall were two niches narrow and
high. In each was laid a slender meal of roots, bread, and water. Close
to each cell, motionless, stood two haggard monks holding a blazing
torch, and displaying the cement, stones, and implements with which the
culprits were to be immured.

Now the blind old Abbot rose to speak the doom of those to be enclosed
in the new made tombs. Twice he stopped, as the woeful maiden, gathering
her powers, tried to make audible the words which died in murmurs on her
quivering lips. At length, by superhuman effort, she sent the blood,
curdled at her heart, coursing through every vein. Light came to her
eye, color to her cheek, and when the silence was broken, she gathered
strength at every word. It was a strange sight to see resolution so high
in a form so weak, so soft, so fair.