It was in the great hall at Eltham--that splendid hall which still remains, attesting, like many other monuments, the magnificent ideas of an age which we, perhaps justly, term barbarous, but which displayed, amongst many rude and uncivilized things, a grasp of conception and a power of execution in some of the arts, that we seldom if ever can attain even in these more generally cultivated times.

In the great hall at Eltham, about an hour after sunset, was laid out a banquet, which in profuse luxury and splendour as far exceeded any, even of our state repasts, in the present day as the hall that overhung it excelled the lumbering architecture of the eighteenth century. The table actually groaned under masses of quaint and curious plate,--many of the cups and dishes blazing with jewels, and an immense emerald, in the shape of a cross surrounded by wax tapers, surmounting and ornamenting the centre of the board. The dresses of the guests were of all those bright and glittering colours so universally affected by rich and poor in those days; and gold and precious stones were seen sparkling all around, not alone ornamenting the persons of the fairer sex, but decorating also the garments of the men.

Though the guests themselves only amounted to seventy, and the broad table at which they sat looked small in the centre of the hall, yet the number of attendants, carvers, cup-bearers, butlers, and sewers, was not less than two hundred, without including the harps, the trumpets, the minstrels and the spectators, who were admitted within certain limits.

Various and curious were the dishes set upon the table; the wine was of the choicest vintages of France and Spain: and one may conceive how recklessly it was suffered to flow in those times, when we know that the consumption of a private nobleman\'s house was upon one occasion, three hundred and seventy pipes in the year, besides ale, metheglin, and hypocras.

The banquet was somewhat strangely ordered, according to our present notions, for there was but one large silver plate assigned to each two persons; but as, with scrupulous exactness, the male and female guests had been restricted to an equal number, this arrangement permitted a display of the courteous gallantry of the times, each gentleman carving for his fair companion, and taking care that she was supplied with all she wished for before himself.

Opportunity was also thus offered for all those little signs and tokens of chivalrous love which but too often, it must be confessed, deviated into vice and folly. But of all the hearts at that table--and there were some which fluttered with gaiety and excitement, some that beat with calm satisfaction, some that palpitated with eager and not over-holy joy,--none throbbed with higher and purer delight than those of Hugh de Monthermer and Lucy de Ashby, as, sitting by side, they bent together over the same board and drank from the same cup. Many a sweet-whispered word was there, while all was laughter and merriment around, and many an avowal of unchanged attachment, many a promise of future affection was spoken by the eyes when any pause in the general conversation might have betrayed the secret had it been intrusted to the lips.

Happy indeed was the young lover, happy indeed was she whom he loved, thus to commune with each other after so long a separation. But if anything could have added to Lucy\'s joy in thus meeting Hugh again, and sitting by his side, it would have been the terms with which Edward had that night brought him forward to the king.

"Let me beseech you, sire," he had said, "for your favour towards the friend of my youth, who, though for some time separated from me by unhappy feuds, now at an end for ever, forgot not, in a time of need, our early regard."

"His house have shown no great love for our throne," replied the King, looking coldly upon him; "but we welcome him for your sake, Edward."

"Do so, my lord," answered the Prince, "for while I was in prison he ever advocated my release, and when I was escaping, and he might have stayed me, he bade God speed me on my way."

"Then we welcome him for his own," replied the King, more warmly, and holding out his hand.

Hugh bent his head over it in silence, and retired.

The merriment had somewhat waned, the lights had grown rather dim, the tapers were burning low, when, taking advantage of a momentary rise in the sounds around, Lucy said, in a low voice, "I have still much to tell, Hugh, of great importance."

"Can you not do so now?" demanded her lover, in the same tone.

"I dare not, I dare not," whispered Lucy, "and yet I would fain that it were soon."

Hugh looked around. "This revel cannot last long," he said, "at least you fair ladies will not stay much longer, Lucy; I can find an excuse too, in my late wounds, to quit the board earlier than the rest, if we could but meet."

Lucy looked down and blushed, for though those were days of liberty, nay, of licence, when every lady held it little less than a duty to hear each tale of passion that was addressed to her,--ay, and to afford full opportunity for its being told,--yet still there was an inherent modesty in her nature, which made the warm blood rise into her cheek at the thought of meeting in secret the man which she loved best.

"I would tell the Princess," she replied, "and ask her advice and assistance, for she is as kind and as wise as ever woman was. But what I have to say no one must hear but you."

"There is a row of cloisters," answered Hugh, "just under the Princess\'s apartments; I will go thither, Lucy, as soon as I can steal away, and wait till all hope of seeing you be gone. Come if you can, my beloved,--come if you can! You know you can trust to me."

"Oh, yes," replied Lucy, in the same low voice; "I will come, Hugh, I will, for it is better."

The evil custom of men prolonging the song, the wine cup, and the revel, after the table has been quitted by those whose presence softens and refines our coarser nature is of a very old date in this our land of England, and though certainly more honoured in the breach than the observance, has only been abandoned by fits and starts from the period of the Saxons till the present day.

At the early meal, which was called dinner in those times, such was not often the case, for every one started up quickly to pursue his business or his rude sports in the light; but after supper, when no occupation called them from the table, the baronage of England would frequently indulge in long revels, ending usually, especially under the monarchs of the pure Norman line, in scenes of the most frightful excess and disgusting licentiousness.

Henry I., though he did something to refine the people, and to soften the manners of his nobles, still tolerated every sort of vice in his court, and it was only with the sovereigns of The house of Plantagenet--though they themselves were often corrupt enough--that a certain degree of decency and courteous refinement was introduced which put a stop to the coarse debaucheries of the Norman race. Under Henry II., Richard, and John, amidst civil and foreign wars, a gradual improvement might be perceived, and even during the reign of the weak Henry III.--at least, by the time of which we speak--the high, pure character of his chivalrous son worked a vast change in the general tone of society.

Thus, though drinking and song, after the ladies of the court had withdrawn, generally succeeded to the evening banquet, yet the night never now terminated in those fearful orgies, to hide which altogether from the eyes of men, the second William had commanded that all lights should be suddenly extinguished in his palace at a certain hour.

On the evening in question, not long after the few words which we have mentioned had passed between Hugh and Lucy, the Princess Eleanor, with the rest of the ladies present, rose and left the hall, taking their way under the high gallery and through the small door which communicated with the royal apartments. As the Princess passed out she placed her hand gently upon Lucy\'s arm, saying--"Come with me, sweet cousin, I would fain speak with you;" and led the way towards her own chamber.

All her own attendants were dismissed one by one; and then, seating herself in a large chair, Eleanor beckoned her fair companion to take a place beside her. But Lucy quietly, and with that exquisite grace which is beauty\'s crowning charm, and she pre-eminently possessed, sunk slowly down upon the stool at the Princess\'s feet; and looked up in her face with a glance from which she strove hard to banish every trace of that impatience which was strong in her heart.

Eleanor gazed down upon her in return with a kindly and yet a thoughtful smile, keeping silence for nearly a minute, and then saying--"So you are very much in love, dear Lucy de Ashby?--Nay, do not blush and cast down your eyes, as if you thought I could doubt it, after your telling me and every body else that it is so, some five times during supper."

"Nay--nay," cried Lucy, turning round quickly with a look of alarm--"not so plainly as that!"

"Plainly enough for me to understand," replied the Princess, "and that is all that is necessary to talk of now. Edward told me something of this before, and I promised to ask if you knew what you were doing."

Lucy looked up again, but it was now with an arch smile; and she answered--"Right well, dear lady."

"I hope it is so," rejoined Eleanor; "for methinks I see difficulties before you--thorns in your path; which I fear may wound those tender feet more than you dream of. You love and are beloved, that is clear, and that were simple enough to deal with, as most loves in this world go, for very often the wild god\'s dart gives but a scratch as it passes, and wounds not one heart deeply in a thousand. But for those who love as you two seem to do, there is a world of anxieties and cares upon the way. In our state of life, Lucy, we cannot, like the happy country maid, give our hand at once where our heart is given, and seldom--seldom through ages, is it the lot of woman to find so happy a fate as mine, where the first lot I drew was the chief prize of the whole world--he whom alone my heart could ever love, and he who was destined to return it well.--He loves you, Lucy, I think,--this young captive lord?"

"I am sure of it, lady," replied Lucy, earnestly.

"Indeed!" said the Princess. "Then doubtless you have spoken on this theme--are plighted and promised to each other!"

Lucy turned somewhat pale, but it was with indecision, and doubt, and the Princess, marking her changing colour, added--"Nay, let me not force your confidence from you. I would fain help you, if I could; but trust, like bounty, must be free, Lucy, not extorted; and though your secret were as safe with me as in your own breast, yet let not the bird take wing if you fear its flight."

Her fair companion, turning round, sunk somewhat farther at the Princess\'s feet, and hid her eyes upon her knee, saying--"My confidence shall be free!--We are plighted by every promise that can bind heart to heart but the last one at the altar; and now that I have told you so much, I will tell you all," she continued,--"even now, I fear he is waiting for my coming in the cloisters down below."

"Nay!" exclaimed Eleanor, with a look of some surprise and disapprobation.

Lucy read her thoughts by the tone in which she spoke, and raising her head somewhat proudly, she replied--"You mistake me, I fear, dear lady; and do not know the purpose for which I go."

"To fly with him, perhaps," said Eleanor.

"Oh no!" answered Lucy, "while my father............