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Wild as the cry that murmured All is lost!'
The night-winds sweep the field with hollow dirge-
While (as he mourned his bloody purpose crost)
The sanguine streaks that in the darkness merge
Like war-fiend's angry scowl, glare o'er the battle's verge.

3.

Hushed is the battle's roar-the breeze of morn
Waved standard sheet, and woke the clarion-
Low sung on evening's blast the distant horn
To the cold ear of flight, its warning tone;
Fallen is the battle's pride-where gonfalon
O'er peer and paladin in glory streamed;

Hovering in hungry swoop on dark pennón
The vulture and the bird of carrion screamed,

Where, wan beneath the moon, their mailed corses gleamed.

As the minstrel struck the last chords, and, animated by his theme, was arming his hand for a more martial touch, and tuned to words more thrilling, the two side doors of the ample hall unclosed, and from the one appeared the beautiful vision of the Lady Isabelle, (whom her uncle willed to grace the feast by her presence,) attended by her damsels and gouvernante, and from the other Sir Paladour, his armour doffed, and splendidly arrayed for the banquet; and as they thus appeared, no youthful painter, in his dreams inspired by

love and genius, ever imaged two forms more bright and perfect. The form of Paladour had all the sculpture-like glory of a god descended from his pedestal; his eagle eye and cheek of flame seemed at war with the immobility of his figure, as he stood gazing on the loveliness of the form that he beheld. He stood transfixed; but the life-blood that seemed to have deserted his frame gushed in the brightest torrents and wildest tides to his cheek and lip, that, in the language of Southey,

Made the rose's blush of beauty pale,

And dimmed the rich geranium's scarlet blaze.

Opposite to him the heiress of Courtenaye and Beaurevoir burst on the eye and soul at once, converting admiration into rapture, and leaving the gazer mute and breathless; moving in the light of beauty, she seemed to communicate a portion of it to the very atmosphere she breathed in. The consciousness of unrivalled loveliness, and the pride of lofty birth, were blended on her brow with a dignity that seemed not to seek for conquests, but to

demand homage; and the mutable brilliancy of her expression proved feelings within that took instant part with all that wakes the noblest or touches the softest chords of the heart.

T

In every movement of her form, in every variation of her features, there was an undulation of majesty and gentleness, an union of vivacity and power, a submissive grandeur, a sportive imperiousness that is the peculiar character of female loveliness, claiming pro tection amid its very omnipotence, but most omnipotent in its weakness. The union of brilliant and lively intelligence with perfect purity is to be found in the human face scarce ever-in those of men never; it was embodied in that of the Lady Isabelle.

Her apparel was suited alike to her rank and her beauty; the attire of noble females of that age bearing, from its lengthened drapery and numerous folds, more resemblance to the Grecian than to the Gothic costume. She was arrayed in a tunic and skirt of azure silk; a zone (not lower than the modern cincture)

compressed her exquisitely modulated bust, and from it hung her embroidered gipsire; her mantle of crimson swept the ground, but one end, gracefully fastened to her zone, displayed the rich embroidery of her left skirt, that blazed with the arms of Courtenaye and Beaurevoir; her wide sleeves, open from the shoulder, disclosed her graceful arms, wreathed with bracelets set with gems; her swan-like neck was encircled with a costly carkanet, and the ringlets of her dark-brown hair, twisted with pearl, were suffered to stream on her bosom, (doubtless through the negligence of her damsels, whom, however, she forgot to chide;) while a gem-studded coronal of gold, over which was flung a glittering veil of aurifrisium, was insufficient to restrain her dark curls from straying over her forehead, and mingling their shade with that of her noblyarched brows. Some said the Lady Isabelle looked loveliest when she touched her lute in her evening bower; some deemed her so when she presided at the tournament or the banquet; but Vidal, the minstrel, swore she never looked

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so lovely as when she distributed the weekly dole at her castle-gate, and with her own delicate hands bestowed their portions on the deformed, the cripple, and the leper, who gazed upon her as they received it, as if at her heavenly smile disease fled, and anguish was forgotten.

As Paladour approached the chair of state where her maidens spread the rich folds of her mantle, while the lady placed her slender foot on an embroidered cushion that a page reverently laid for her, not all Sir Aymer's whispered ridicule and monitory touches could recover him from the delicious trance, the awful tremblings, that at once urged and repelled his timid advance. Sir Aymer, versed in courtly ceremonial as well as in martial discipline, announced with becoming dignity the Knight de la Croix Sanglante; while Paladour blushed and bowed, and the lady, after a graceful bend, dropt her veil of golden thread over half her beautiful face, as if avoiding all further encounter with the fixed and glowing eyes that were raised to hers, but betraying by

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