“Where shall the traitor rove,
       He, the deceiver,
     Who could win maiden’s love,
       Win and then leave her? 
     In the lost battle,
       Borne down by the flying,
     Where mingles war’s rattle
       With groans of the dying.

    “His warm blood the wolf shall lap,
       Ere life be parted. 
     Shame and dishonor sit
       By his grave ever;
     Blessing shall hallow it—­
       Never, O never!”

The melancholy sound ceased.  The song was sad, and bitterly it fell on the false-hearted Marmion.  Well he knew that at his request the faithful but misguided Constance had been taken to Lindisfarne to be punished for crime committed through her mistaken love for him.  As if he already saw disgrace for himself and death for her, he drew his mantle before his face, and bent his head upon his hands.  Constance de Beverley at that moment was dying in her cell.

The meanest groom in all the train could scarce have wished to exchange places with the proud Marmion, could his thoughts have been known.  Controlling himself, and raising his head, he said: 

“As you sang, it seemed that I heard a death knell rung in mine ear.  What is the meaning of this weird sound?”

Then for the first time the Palmer broke his silence, and said in reply:  “It foretells the death of a loved friend.”

Utterance, for once, failed the haughty Marmion, whose pride heretofore could scarcely brook a word even from his King.  His glance fell, his brow flushed, for something familiar in the tone or look of the speaker so struck the false heart that he was speechless.

Before his troubled imagination rose a vision of the lovely Constance, beautiful and pure as when, trusting his treacherous words, she left the peaceful walls of her convent.  He knew she was now a captive in convent cell, and the strange words of the Palmer, added to the song of the squire, had made him unhappy.  “Alas!” he thought, “would that I had left her in purity to live, in holiness to die.”  Twice he was ready to order, “To horse,” that he might fly to Lindisfarne and command that not one golden ringlet of her fair head be harmed, and twice he thought, “They dare not.  I gave orders that she should be safe, though not at large.”

While thus love and repentance strove in the breast of the lord, the landlord began a weird tale, suggested by the speech of the Palmer.  As Marmion listened, he gathered from the legend that not far from where they sat, a knight might learn of future weal or woe.  He might, perchance, meet “in the charmed ring” his deadliest foe, in the form of a spectre, and with it engage in mortal combat.  If victorious over this supernatural antagonist, the omen was victory in all future undertakings.

    “Marmion longed to prove his chance;
     In charmed ring to break a lance.”

The yeomen had drunk deep; the ale was strong, and at a sign from their master, all sought rest on the hostel floor before the now dying embers.  For pillow, under each head, was quiver or targe.  The flickering fire threw fitful shadows on the strange group.  Marmion and his squires retired to other quarters.  Where the Palmer had disappeared, none knew or cared.