Such as became the Governor of the State,
Who represented England and the King,
And was magnificent in everything. 
He had invited all his friends and peers,—­
The Pepperels, the Langdons, and the Lears,
The Sparhawks, the Penhallows, and the rest;
For why repeat the name of every guest? 
But I must mention one, in bands and gown,
The rector there, the Reverend Arthur Brown
Of the Established Church; with smiling face
He sat beside the Governor and said grace;
And then the feast went on, as others do,
But ended as none other I e’er knew.

When they had drunk the King, with many a cheer,
The Governor whispered in a servant’s ear,
Who disappeared and presently there stood
Within the room, in perfect womanhood,
A maiden, modest and yet self-possessed,
Youthful and beautiful, and simply dressed. 
Can this be Martha Hilton?  It must be! 
Yes, Martha Hilton, and no other she! 
Dowered with the beauty of her twenty years,
How ladylike, how queenlike she appears;
The pale, thin crescent of the days gone by
Is Dian now in all her majesty! 
Yet scarce a guest perceived that she was there,
Until the Governor, rising from his chair,
Played slightly with his ruffles, then looked down,
And said unto the Reverend Arthur Brown: 
“This is my birthday:  it shall likewise be
My wedding-day; and you shall marry me!”

The listening guests were greatly mystified,
None more so than the rector, who replied: 
“Marry you?  Yes, that were a pleasant task,
Your Excellency; but to whom?  I ask.” 
The Governor answered:  “To this lady here”
And beckoned Martha Hilton to draw near. 
She came and stood, all blushes, at his side. 
The rector paused.  The impatient Governor cried: 
“This is the lady; do you hesitate? 
Then I command you as Chief Magistrate.” 
The rector read the service loud and clear: 
“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here,”
And so on to the end.  At his command
On the fourth finger of her fair left hand
The Governor placed the ring; and that was all: 
Martha was Lady Wentworth of the Hall!

INTERLUDE.

Well pleased the audience heard the tale. 
The Theologian said:  “Indeed,
To praise you there is little need;
One almost hears the farmers flail
Thresh out your wheat, nor does there fail
A certain freshness, as you said,
And sweetness as of home-made bread. 
But not less sweet and not less fresh
Are many legends that I know,
Writ by the monks of long-ago,
Who loved to mortify the flesh,
So that the soul might purer grow,
And rise to a diviner state;
And one of these—­perhaps of all
Most beautiful—­I now recall,
And with permission will narrate;
Hoping thereby to make amends
For that grim tragedy of mine,
As strong and black as Spanish wine,
I told last night, and wish almost
It had remained untold, my friends;
For Torquemada’s awful ghost
Came to me in the dreams I dreamed,
And in the darkness glared and gleamed
Like a great lighthouse on the coast.”