above, but it is in despair, not hope; she weeps, yet dares not pray, for the image of Henry is in her heart even while prostrate before the image of her Saviour. The scene changes—it is the banquet-room again. Another sits beneath the purple canopy—a lady, but alone. The diadem is on her cold and haughty brow; there is no pity in her stern aspect, and the smile on her lip bodes death. Before her stands the lovely culprit, whose fatal beauty, and still more fatal love, are about to be dearly requited. Her mouth is yet red with the blow of the vindictive Queen; but her eye, if sad, is calm, and her cheek, though pale, is resolved. The dark cup is in her hand—she has turned aside from the dagger—it is too cruel a weapon for her gentle clasp.
Francesca, who knew not the story, gazed eagerly on the last compartment. It is a little chapel, where the mourners are ranged, torch in hand, and at the altar the robed priests are chanting: the service for a departed soul. An old man stands near, but his face is buried in his cloak; and in the midst, laid upon an open bier, is the fair Rosamond. The decent shroud hides that perfect form; and two long braids of hair, parted on the white forehead, extend their length even to her feet. Death has not yet subdued the
