Weep not, my Edward, weep not, my beloved son! or weep for
their apostasy, and not for their union--Bless God, who hath called
thee to himself, out of the tents of wickedness; but for the grace of
Our Lady and Saint Benedict, thou also hadst been a castaway."
"I endeavour, my father," said Edward, "I endeavour to forget; but what
I would now blot from my memory has been the thought of all my former
life--Murray dare not forward a match so unequal in birth."
"He dares do what suits his purpose--The Castle of Avenel is strong,
and needs a good castellan, devoted to his service; as for the
difference of their birth, he will mind it no more than he would mind
defacing the natural regularity of the ground, were it necessary he
should erect upon it military lines and intrenchments. But do not
droop for that--awaken thy soul within thee, my son. Think you part
with a vain vision, an idle dream, nursed in solitude and inaction.--I
weep not, yet what am I now like to lose?--Look at these towers, where
saints dwelt, and where heroes have been buried--Think that I, so
briefly called to preside over the pious flock, which has dwelt here
since the first light of Christianity, may be this day written down
the last father of this holy community--Come, let us descend, and meet
our fate. I see them approach near to the village."
The Abbot descended, the novice cast a glance around him; yet the
sense of the danger impending over the stately structure, with which
he was now united, was unable to banish the recollection of Mary
Ayenel.
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