to a witch, or a wand to a conjurer. Speak it but thus, in a deep, grave tone—Pax vobiscum! it is irresistible. Watch and ward, knight and squire, foot and horse, it acts as a charm upon them all. I think, if they bring me out to be hanged to-morrow, as is much to be doubted they may, I will try its weight upon the finisher of the sentence.”

“If such prove the case,” said the master, “my religious orders are soon taken—Pax vobiscum. I trust I shall remember the password. Noble Athelstane, farewell; and farewell, my poor boy, whose heart might make amends for a weaker head—I will save you, or return and die with you. The royal blood of our Saxon kings shall not be spilt while mine beats in my veins; nor shall one hair fall from the head of the kind knave who risked himself for his master, if Cedric’s peril can prevent it.—Farewell.”

“Farewell, noble Cedric,” said Athelstane; “remember it is the true part of a friar to accept refreshment, if you are offered any.”

“Farewell, uncle,” added Wamba; “and remember Pax vobiscum.”

Thus exhorted, Cedric sallied forth upon his expedition; and it was not long ere he had occasion to try the force of that spell which his jester had recommended as omnipotent. In a low-arched and dusky passage, by which he endeavoured to walk his way to the hall of the castle, he was interrupted by a female form.

“Pax vobiscum!” said the pseudo friar, and was endeavouring to hurry past, when a soft voice replied, Et vobis—quœso,domine reverendissime,pro misericordia vestra.”

“I am somewhat deaf,” replied Cedric in good Saxon, and at the same time muttered to himself, “A curse on the fool and his Pax vobiscum! I have lost my javelin at the first cast.”

It was, however, no unusual thing for a priest of those days to be deaf of his Latin ear, and this the person who now addressed Cedric knew full well.

“I pray you of dear love, reverend father,” she replied in his own language, “that you will deign to visit with your ghostly comfort a wounded prisoner of this castle, and have such compassion upon him and us as thy holy office teaches. Never shall good deed so highly advantage thy convent.”

“Daughter,” answered Cedric, much embarrassed, “my time in this castle will not permit me to exercise the duties of mine office—I must presently forth—there is life and death upon my speed.”

“Yet, father, let me entreat you by the vow you have taken on you,” replied the suppliant, “not to leave the oppressed and endangered without counsel or succour.”

“May the fiend fly away with me, and leave me in Ifrin with the souls of Odin and of Thor!” answered Cedric impatiently, and would probably have proceeded in the same tone of total departure from his spiritual character, when the colloquy was interrupted by the harsh voice of Urfried, the old crone of the turret.

“How, minion,” said she to the female speaker, “is this the manner in which you requite the kindness which permitted thee to leave thy prison-cell yonder? Puttest thou the reverend man to use ungracious language to free himself from the importunities of a Jewess?”

“A Jewess!” said Cedric, availing himself of the information to get clear of their interruption.—“Let me pass, woman! stop me not at your peril. I am fresh from my holy office, and would avoid pollution.”

“Come this way, father,” said the old hag, “thou art a stranger in this castle, and canst not leave it without a guide. Come hither, for I would speak with thee. And you, daughter of an accursed race, go to the sick man’s chamber, and tend him until my return; and woe betide you if you again quit it without my permission!”