Then in my gown of sober gray

Along the mountain path I’ll wander,

And wind my solitary way

To the sad shrine that courts me yonder.

There, in the calm monastic shade,

All injuries may be forgiven;

And there for thee, obdurate maid,

My orisons shall rise to heaven.

The Cruel Lady of the Mountains.

The first words which Edward uttered were — “My brother is safe, reverend father — he is safe, thank God, and lives! — There is not in Corri-nan-shian a grave, nor a vestige of a grave. The turf around the fountain has neither been disturbed by pick-axe, spade, nor mattock, since the deer’s-hair first sprang there. He lives as surely as I live!”

The earnestness of the youth — the vivacity with which he looked and moved — the springy step, outstretched hand, and ardent eye, reminded Henry Warden of Halbert, so lately his guide. The brothers had indeed a strong family resemblance, though Halbert was far more athletic and active in his person, taller and better knit in the limbs, and though Edward had, on ordinary occasions, a look of more habitual acuteness and more profound reflection. The preacher was interested as well as the Sub-Prior.

“Of whom do you speak, my son?” he said, in a tone as unconcerned as if his own fate had not been at the same instant trembling in the balance, and as if a dungeon and death did not appear to be his instant doom —“Of whom, I say, speak you? If of a youth somewhat older than you seem to be — brown-haired, open-featured, taller and stronger than you appear, yet having much of the same air and of the same tone of voice — if such a one is the brother whom you seek, it may be I can tell you news of him.”

“Speak, then, for Heaven’s sake,” said Edward —“life or death lies on thy tongue!”

The Sub-Prior joined eagerly in the same request, and, without waiting to be urged, the preacher gave so minute an account of the circumstances under which he met the elder Glendinning, with so exact a description of his person, that there remained no doubt as to his identity. When he mentioned that Halbert Glendinning had conducted him to a dell in which they found the grass bloody, and a grave newly closed, and told how the youth accused himself of the slaughter of Sir Piercie Shafton, the Sub-Prior looked on Edward with astonishment.

“Didst thou not say, even now,” he said, “that there was no vestige of a grave in that spot?”

“No more vestige of the earth having been removed than if the turf had grown there since the days of Adam,” replied Edward Glendinning. “It is true,” he added, “that the adjacent grass was trampled and bloody.”

“These are delusions of the Enemy,” said the Sub-Prior, crossing himself. —“Christian men may no longer doubt of it.”

“But an it be so,” said Warden, “Christian men might better guard themselves by the sword of prayer than by the idle form of a cabalistical spell.”

“The badge of our salvation,” said the Sub-Prior, “cannot be so termed — the sign of the cross disarmeth all evil spirits.”

“Ay,” answered Henry Warden, apt and armed for controversy, “but it should be borne in the heart, not scored with the fingers in the air. That very impassive air, through which your hand passes, shall as soon bear the imprint of your action, as the external action shall avail the fond bigot who substitutes vain motions of the body, idle genuflections, and signs of the cross, for the living and heart-born duties of faith and good works.”

“I pity thee,” said the Sub-Prior, as actively ready for polemics as himself — “I pity thee, Henry, and reply not to thee. Thou mayest as well winnow forth and measure the ocean with a sieve, as mete out the power of holy words, deeds, and signs, by the erring gauge of thine own reason.”

“Not by mine own reason would I mete them,” said Warden; “but by His holy Word, that unfading and unerring lamp of our paths, compared to which human reason is but as a glimmering and fading taper, and your boasted tradition only a misleading wildfire. Show me your Scripture warrant for ascribing virtue to such vain signs and motions!”

“I offered thee a fair field of debate,” said the Sub-Prior, “which thou didst refuse. I will not at present resume the controversy.”

“Were these my last accents,” said the reformer, “and were they uttered at the stake, half-choked with smoke, and as the fagots kindled into a blaze around me, with that last utterance I would testify against the superstitious devices of Rome.”

The Sub-Prior suppressed with pain the controversial answer which arose to his lips, and, turning to Edward Glendinning, he said, “there could be now no doubt that his mother ought presently to be informed that her son lived.”

“I told you that two hours since,” said Christie of the Clinthill, “an you would have believed me. But it seems you are more willing to take the word of an old gray sorner, whose life has been spent in pattering heresy, than mine, though I never rode a foray in my life without duly saying my paternoster.”

“Go then,” said Father Eustace to Edward; “let thy sorrowing mother know that her son is restored to her from the grave, like the child of the widow of Zarephath; at the intercession,” he added, looking at Henry Warden, “of the blessed Saint whom I invoked in his behalf.”

“Deceived thyself,” said Warden, instantly, “thou art a deceiver of others. It was no dead man, no creature of clay, whom the blessed Tishbite invoked, when, stung by the reproach of the Shunamite woman, he prayed that her son’s soul might come into him again.”

“It was by his intercession, however,” repeated the Sub-Prior; “for what says the Vulgate? Thus it is written: ‘Et exaudivit Dominus vocem Helie; et reversa est anima pueri intra cum, et revixit;’— and thinkest thou the intercession of a glorified saint is more feeble than when he walks on earth, shrouded in a tabernacle of clay, and seeing but with the eye of flesh?”

During this controversy Edward Glendinning appeared restless and impatient, agitated by some internal feeling, but whether of joy, grief, or expectation, his countenance did not expressly declare. He took now the unusual freedom to break in upon the discourse of the Sub-Prior, who, notwithstanding his resolution to the contrary, was obviously kindling in the spirit of controversy, which Edward diverted by conjuring his reverence to allow him to speak a few words with him in private.

“Remove the prisoner,” said the Sub-Prior to Christie; “look to him carefully that he escape not; but for thy life do him no injury.”

His commands being obeyed, Edward and the monk were left alone, when the Sub-Prior thus addressed him:

“What hath come over thee, Edward, that thy eye kindles so wildly, and thy cheek is thus changing from scarlet to pale? Why didst thou break in so hastily and unadvisedly upon the argument with which I was prostrating yonder heretic? And wherefore dost thou not tell thy mother that her son is restored to her by the intercession, as Holy Church well warrants us to believe, of Blessed Saint Benedict, the patron of our Order? For if ever my prayers were put forth to him with zeal, it hath been in behalf of this house, and thine eyes have seen the result — go tell it to thy mother.”

“I must tell her then,” said Edward, “that if she has regained one son, another is lost to her.”

“What meanest thou, Edward? what language is this?” said the Sub-Prior.

“Father,” said the youth, kneeling down to him, “my sin and my shame shall be told thee, and thou shalt witness my penance with thine own eyes.”

“I comprehend thee not,” said the Sub-Prior. “What canst thou have done to deserve such self-accusation? — Hast thou too listened,” he added, knitting his brows, “to the demon of heresy, ever most effectual tempter of those, who, like yonder unhappy man, are distinguished by their love of knowledge?”

“I am guiltless in that matter,” answered Glendinning, “nor have presumed to think otherwise than thou, my kind father, hast taught me, and than the Church allows.”

“And what is it then, my son,” said the Sub-Prior, kindly, “which thus afflicts thy conscience? speak it to me, that I may answer thee in the words of comfort; for the Church’s mercy is great to those obedient children who doubt not her power.”

“My confession will require her mercy,” replied Edward. “My brother Halbert — so kind, so brave, so gentle, who spoke not, thought not, acted not, but in love to me, whose hand had aided me in every difficulty, whose eye watched over me like the eagle’s over her nestlings, when they prove their first flight from the eyry — this brother, so kind, so gently affectionate — I heard of his sudden, his bloody, his violent death, and I rejoiced — I heard of his unexpected restoration, and I sorrowed!”

“Edward,” said the father, “thou art beside thyself — what could urge thee to such odious ingratitude? — In your hurry of spirits you have mistaken the confused tenor of your feelings — Go, my son, pray and compose thy mind — we will speak of this another time.”

“No, father, no,” said Edward, vehemently, “now or never! — I will find the means to tame this rebellious heart of mine, or I will tear it out of my bosom — Mistake its passions? — No, father, grief can ill be mistaken for joy — All wept, all shrieked around me — my mother — the menials — she too, the cause of my crime — all wept — and I— I could hardly disguise my brutal and insane joy under the appearance of revenge — Brother, I said, I cannot give thee tears, but I will give thee blood — Yes, father, as I counted hour after hour, while I kept watch upon the English prisoner, and said, I am an hour nearer to hope and to happiness ——”

“I understand thee not, Edward,” said the monk, “nor can I conceive in what way thy brother’s supposed murder should have affected thee with such unnatural joy — Surely the sordid desire to succeed him in his small possessions ——”

“Perish the paltry trash!” said Edward, with the same emotion. “No, father, it was rivalry — it was jealous rage — it was the love of Mary Avenel, that rendered me the unnatural wretch I confess myself!”

“Of Mary Avenel!” said the Priest —“of a lady so high above either of you in name and in rank? How dared Halber............