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would be rifled and plucked down, his brethren done to death or dispersed, perhaps forever. This must have been the bitterest draught of all to him, for the ties of consecrated love are as dear as those of kin, and he might be pardoned if he gloried in all that his Order had achieved for the Island of Saints. Were they not her Apostles? Had they not given to England many of that illustrious line of sainted confessors and bishops, statesmen and writers? Now he might exclaim: "Our inheritance is turned to aliens, our house to strangers." But the noose is now drawn round his neck, the cart is driven away, and Richard Whiting takes his place among the whiterobed army of martyrs encircling the throne of the Lamb that was slain.

It was on Tor Hill that the last Abbot of Glastonbury was executed, with two of his monks, under the pretext that they had robbed Glastonbury Church. The Abbot's body was divided into four parts, according to the barbarous custom of the time, and sent to Wells, Bath, Ilchester, and Bridgewater. His head was placed over the Abbey gate. The lands were then sold, the property divided, and after they had been stripped of their treasures for the royal exchequer, the magnificent and venerable edifices were given up to pillage and desecration. In the reign of Queen Mary some of the monks petitioned her Majesty to" raise their Abbey again," which was held to be the "ancientest and richest in England." But the unsettled state of the realm, and the Queen's death, ended all hope of the restoration of Glastonbury Abbey.

Amongst other traditions of Glastonbury in the olden time. is that of its being the burial place of the renowned British King Arthur, the hero of early legend, represented as the flower of chivalry and of Christian valor. It is said that when mortally wounded in his last great battle of Camleon in Cornwall, he bade his followers convey him to "the island-valley of Avilion," in order that he might in solitude prepare to depart out of this world. This scene has been the theme of many a bard's song, but none describes it so touchingly as the master-poet of the last century, Tennyson, in the "Morte d'Arthur." The hero speaks to his favorite knight, the brave Sir Bedivere:

But now farewell, I am going a long way
With these thou seest-if indeed I go

(For all my mind is clouded with a doubt)
To the island-valley of Avilion ;

Where falls not hail, nor rain, nor any snow,
Nor ever wind blows loudly, but it lies

Deep meadowed, happy, fair with orchard lawns,
And bowery hollows crowned with summer sea,
Where I will heal me of my grievous wound.

Formal search was not made for the grave until the twelfth century, when the spot, marked by two sculptured crosses, was found. At the depth of seven feet from the surface a flat stone was unearthed bearing in rude characters the words in Latin *: Here lies the renowned King Arthur, buried in the island Avalonia. Below was a huge oak coffin, which, when opened, was seen to contain the King's bones, which were of a large size; on the skull were the marks of ten wounds. The same coffin contained the bones of Queen Guinevere. These remains were removed to a chapel in the great church.

The town of Glastonbury has in itself little to attract the traveler. The population numbers about 5,000; the only building of any note is the Pilgrim's Inn, a house of considerable architectural beauty, built and once maintained at the expense of one of the Abbots in the fifteenth century. Every visitor was treated as a guest, and allowed to remain for two days. When first the relics at Glastonbury attracted a great number of pilgrims to the shrine, they found accommodation in the Abbey; then a hospice for their benefit was erected adjoining the monastery walls; and when this proved insufficient for their entertainment, they were lodged at the Pilgrim's Inn, which was connected with the monastery by a subterranean passage. In the extensive cellars rises a spring of water, beside it is a stone seat whereon penitents are traditionally said to have sat up to their knees in water. More probably, however, if this practice really existed, it was destined rather for ills of the body than of the soul, since we read that at one time the mineral waters rising at the foot of Tor Hill, below which Glastonbury is situated, attained considerable notoriety on account of their health-restoring qualities.

*Hic jacet et sepultus inclitus Rex Arthurus. In insula Avalonia.



Author of "My New Curate"; "Luke Delmege"; "Glenanaar," etc.



O woman, mother or maiden, ever utterly loathes that which she has once loved. Her usually flexible nature seems to be hardened by that passion into a shape which cannot be bent backward or broken. There may be anger, jealousy, hate, under which her soul will vibrate painfully. But, at length and at last, it settles down into one fixed poise, which seems as unchangeable as the earth's axis towards the sun.

Hence Mabel Willoughby, after her baptism of tears, took the regenerated soul of her husband unto her own, and settled down into a calm attitude of resignation and affection. The effect on Outram was almost startling. The unavowed forgiveness of his wife for his deadly deception touched unto better purposes and larger issues a spirit that had grown old in du plicity; and he came to worship, with a kind of doglike uplook, the woman whom he had betrayed, and who had so nobly absolved him. Hence, during these fleeting summer and autumnal months, he lost all his cunning, all his cynicism; and went about a humble and deferential follower of his wife, asking for and obeying her commands; whilst she, in turn, seemed to regard him with a kind of respect for his misfortune and forgiven fault.

But, where men forgive, Nature and her handmaid, Nemesis, are sometimes relentless; and certainly, in some mysterious manner, the magnanimity of men is not imitated by that hidden and masked executioner, called Fate. And so it happened that one day Outram, who was fleeing from Fate, fell into its arms; and expiating his sin, liberated at the same time the woman who had been his victim and pardoner together.

One autumn day, unlike autumn however in a strong breeze *Copyright. 1906. Longmans, Green & Co.

that curled the waters down in a Kerry fiord, which had also become a fashionable watering-place, a curious picture could have been seen.

There was a strong sunlight on the beach, where children were building sand-castles; and the old were sitting musing; and the young were gaily emerging from the bathing boxes for the afternoon dip in the sea. This was commonplace enough; but what relieved it was a strange figure of a girl, evidently an Oriental or a quadroon, clothed all in white, except for the red sash that bound her waist, and the red turban, with a gold tuft or crest, that hardly bound her black and glossy hair. Her feet were bare, but were ringed with silver anklets. Her arms too were covered with some kind of bracelets in chased silver, and she stood motionless as a statue, except that the wind caught, from time to time, her white skirt, or her red sash, and swung it around, and threw it back again. But there, against the background of the sea, green and white, and on the level gray sands, she stood, statuesque and imposing; and many a curious eye watched her, and many a curious guess was made about her nationality and her presence in this obscure and remote place.

Just a little inkling of her position might have been given by the presence also of a lady and gentleman, who sat about twenty or thirty yards behind her on a little sand-hill where sea thistles grew. They were both silent, sketching furiously the figure before them; and occasionally dabbing in some bright colors from a palette that lay between them.

After about three-quarters of an hour, during which the white figure never stirred from its position, the lady and gentleman rose; the latter said something aloud so that the girl might hear; and instantly, just touching her turban and her black hair with her fingers with a gesture of feminine coquetry, she turned aside, and walked with a stately and dignified step towards the only hotel this remote watering-place could boast of. Many eyes followed her; many stared at her rudely; but she looked over all with a certain calm grace and dignity that made the rude and the insolent and the curious lower their gaze as she passed.

That evening the only passengers that stepped from the stage-coach, which plied between the village and Killarney, were Outram and his wife.

They had come to spend a week or two of the closing autumnal holidays here and there on the loveliest seacoast in the world; and Outram, always fond of society and excitement, now sought the most secluded and hidden places, as if he dreaded the faces of strangers, or was jealous of aught but the companionship of his wife.

He had said to Mabel, just as they approached the hotel: "Here we can manage, I think, a quiet week or two. I understand the season has been a poor one; and we shall be almost alone."

And he stepped from the coach with the agility of one who just then was relieved from some apprehension, and had sought and found a respite or a rest. And they were fortunate in securing the two best rooms in the hotel-those overlooking a long strip of laureled garden, over whose foliage could be seen the green wastes of the sea.

Yet, next morning after breakfast, to Mabel's intense surprise, Outram came to her and said, in a pitiful way, that closed all questioning:

"I think we had better clear out from here, Mabel. I have had a wretched night, full of all apprehensions and fears. wish I had that ring from Maxwell."

And he looked so ill that she forbore asking questions. The hotel proprietor was alarmed and disturbed. He had counted on such eligible guests for a fortnight at least.

"Anything wrong with the room? We can easily get you another! Perhaps you would like your meals alone?" etc. To all which anxious interrogatories Outram could only say: "No, no; all is right. But—”

And they departed.

Mabel mused all the way in silence, until they came to their old quarters on Caragh Lake. High up on the hills was the bell-tent of Maxwell, with the little red pennant fluttering in the breeze.

"I hope Maxwell is here," he said. "I shall demand my ring."

"He cannot be here," said Mabel, wishing it were so. "You know he's married to some English girl along the Dingle Coast; and I heard they have gone abroad."

The sudden hope died away from Outram's face, and left it dark and gloomy as before.

They had rooms in the hotel; and the unhappy man, hunted

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