The proudest of the proud was he,
Yet, trained in camp, he knew the art
To win the soldier's hardy heart.
Boisterous as March, yet fresh as May,
With open hand and brow as free,
Lover of wine and minstrelsy."

Directly opposite, resting on his staff, stood the Palmer, the thin,
dark visage half seen, half hidden by his hood. Steadily he gazed on
Marmion, who by frown and gesture gave evidence that he could ill bear
so close a scrutiny.

As squire and archer looked at the stern, dark face of the Pilgrim,
their bursts of laughter grew less loud, less frequent, and gradually
their mirth declined. They whispered one to another: "Sawest thou ever
such a face? How pale his cheek! How bright his eye! His heart must be
set only on his soul's salvation."

To chase away the gloom gradually stealing over the company, and to draw
from himself the sullen scowl of the Palmer, Marmion called upon his
favorite squire:

"'Fitz-Eustace, knows't thou not some lay
To speed the lingering night away?'"

The youth made an unhappy choice. He had a rich, mellow voice, and chose
the wild, sad ballad often sung to Marmion by the unfortunate Constance
de Beverley. When all was quiet, quiveringly the notes fell upon the
air: