from his steed, a lovely woman sprang through the gloomy archway, and lay in tears upon his breast.
“My wife! my sweet, true wife! Is it indeed thou! Thy cheek is paler than its wont. Hast mourned for me, my love?” And the knight put back the long black locks and gazed upon that sad, sweet face. Oh! the delicious joy of that dear meeting! Was it too dear, too bright to last?
At a banquet, given in honour of De Courcy’s return, some of the guests, flushed with wine, rashly let fall in his hearing an insinuation which awoke all his former doubts, and, upon inquiry, he found to his horror that during his absence the Lady Loyaline had left her home for months, and none knew whither or why she went, but all could guess, they hinted.
De Courcy sprang up, with his hand on the heft of his sword, and rushed toward the chamber of his wife. She met him in the anteroom, and listened calmly and patiently as he gave vent to all his jealous wrath, and bade her prepare to die. Her only reply was—“Let me go to my chamber; I would say one prayer; then do with me as you will.”
“Begone!”
The chamber door closed on the graceful form and sweeping robes of the Lady de Courcy. But in a few moments it opened again, and forth came, with meekly folded arms, a stripling in a page’s dress and crimson cap!—the bold, bright boy with whom he had parted at his dungeon-gate! “Here! in her very chamber!” The knight sprang forward to cleave the daring intruder to the earth. But the stranger flung to the ground the cap and the golden locks, and De Courcy fell at the feet, not of a minstrel-boy, but of his own true-hearted wife, and begged her forgiveness, and blessed her for her heroic and beautiful devotion.
