"Do you here worship," she said, "the St. George of Burgundy, or the
St. George of merry England, the flower of chivalry?"

"I serve," said Philipson, folding his hands humbly on his bosom, "the
saint to whom this chapel is dedicated, and the deity with whom I hope
for his holy intercession, whether here or in my native country."

"Ay--you," said the female, "even you can forget--you, even you, who
have been numbered among the mirror of knighthood--can forget that you
have worshipped in the royal fane of Windsor--that you have there bent
a _gartered_ knee, where kings and princes kneeled around you--you can
forget this, and make your orisons at a foreign shrine, with a heart
undisturbed with the thoughts of what you have been--praying, like
some poor peasant, for bread and life during the day that passes over
you."

"Lady" replied Philipson, "in my proudest hours, I was, before the
being to whom I preferred my prayers, but as a worm in the dust--in
his eyes I am now neither less nor more, degraded as I may be in the
opinion of my fellow-reptiles."

"How canst thou think thus!" said the devotee; "and yet it is well
with thee that thou canst. But what have thy losses been compared to
mine!"

She put her hand to her brow, and seemed for a moment overpowered by
agonizing recollections.

Arthur pressed to his father's side, and inquired, in a tone of
interest which could not be repressed, "Father, who is this lady? Is