XVII. While round the fire such legends go, It was more dark and lone, that vault, When he, for cowl and beads, laid down This den, which, chilling every sense Of feeling, hearing, sight, Was called the Vault of Penitence, Was, by the prelate Sexhelm, made The hearers blessed themselves, and said, Bemoaned their torments there. XVIII. But though, in the monastic pile, Did of this penitential aisle Some vague tradition go, Few only, save the Abbot, knew Where the place lay; and still more few Were those, who had from him the clew To that dread vault to go. Victim and executioner Were blindfold when transported there. Which served to light this drear domain, And yet it dimly served to show The awful conclave met below. XIX. There, met to doom in secrecy, Were placed the heads of convents three, All servants of Saint Benedict, The statutes of whose order strict On iron table lay; Antique Chandelier. In long black dress, on seats of stone, Behind were these three judges shown, By the pale cresset's ray: The Abbess of Saint Hilda, there, Sate for a space with visage bare, Until, to hide her bosom's swell, And tear-drops that for pity fell, She closely drew her veil: Yon shrouded figure, as I guess, By her proud mien and flowing dress, Is Tynemouth's haughty Prioress, And she with awe looks pale: And he, that ancient man, whose sight Has long been quenched by age's night, Upon whose wrinkled brow alone, Nor ruth, nor mercy's trace is shown, Whose look is hard and stern,— Saint Cuthbert's abbot is his style; For sanctity called, through the isle, The saint of Lindisfarn. XX. Before them stood a guilty pair; But, though an equal fate they share, Yet one alone deserves our care. The cloke and doublet, loosely tied, Obscured her charms, but could not hide. Her cap down o'er her face she drew; And, on her doublet breast, She tried to hide the badge of blue, Lord Marmion's falcon crest. But, at the Prioress' command, A monk undid the silken band, That tied her tresses fair, And raised the bonnet from her head, In ringlets rich and rare. Sister professed of Fontevraud, Whom the church numbered with the dead, For broken vows, and convent fled. XXI. When thus her face was given to view, To those bright ringlets, glistering fair,) That neither sense nor pulse she lacks, XXII. Her comrade was a sordid soul, Such as does murther for a meed; For them, no visioned terrors daunt, And crouch like hound beneath the lash; XXIII. Yet well the luckless wretch might shriek, |