" The lady turned aside
her head--she leaned over the chair for support, whilst one hand pressed
her throbbing temples.
"_Mabel Bradshaigh!_" It was the voice of Sir William. She started as at
a summons from the tomb. No other form was visible but that of the
pilgrim bending over his staff. Her eye wandered wildly around the hall,
as if she expected some phantom to start from its recesses. A
richly-fretted screen, behind which the minstrels and lookers-on
occasionally sat at the festival, stood at the lower end of the
apartment. A slight rustling was heard; she was about to rush towards
the spot, when the voice was again audible, and apparently at her side.
Slowly the hood of the pilgrim was uplifted. He threw off his disguise;
but oh, how changed was the once athletic form of Sir William
Bradshaigh! With a wild and piercing shriek she flew towards the
outstretched arms of her husband; but ere they met, a figure stepped
between, barring their approach. It was the ungainly person of Sir
Osmund Neville.
"Nay, nay, seek thy leman elsewhere, thou gay palmer. It were a brave
honour, truly, to graft me with thy favours.
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