THE PROSE MARMION.



CHAPTER I.


In all the border country that lies between England and Scotland, no
castle stands more fair than Norham. Fast by its rock-ribbed walls flows
the noble Tweed, and on its battled towers frown the hills of Cheviot.

Day was dying, St. George's banner, broad and gay, hung in the evening
breeze that scarce had power to wave it o'er the keep. Warriors on the
turrets were moving across the sky like giants, their armor flashing
back the gleam of the setting sun, when a horseman dashed forward,
spurred on his proud steed, and blew his bugle before the dark archway
of the castle. The warder, knowing well the horn he heard, hastened from
the wall and warned the captain of the guard. At once was given the
command, "Make the entrance free! Let every minstrel, every herald,
every squire, prepare to receive Lord Marmion, who waits below!" The
iron-studded gate was unbarred, the portcullis raised, the drawbridge
dropped, and proudly across it, stepped a red roan charger, bearing the
noble guest.

Lord Marmion was a stalwart knight, whose visage told of many a battle.
The scar on his brown cheek spoke of Bosworth Field, and the fire that
burned in his eye showed a spirit still proud. The lines of care on his