road, and when the drowsy tinkling ceased, deep silence seemed to fall
over the landscape, while the night darkened--if darkness it could be
called when the moonbeams succeeded to the fiercer light of the
glowing orb of day.

The Lady Hilda was at the window of her bower, slightly indisposed;
she had not gone down to the priory, but sat inhaling the rich
fragrance of the night as the gentle breeze wafted it from a thousand
flowers. Star after star peeped out; one sweet-voiced nightingale
began her song, trilling through the air; another enviously took up
the strain. Hilda thought the earth had never seemed so much like
heaven, and she imagined the tuneful birds sang their vesper song in
union with the monks, whose solemn and plaintive chant awoke the
echoes of the priory church. Her heart was full of solemn yet not sad
thoughts; peace, sweet peace, was the subject of her meditations, and
she thought with gratitude of Him who had hitherto preserved Mercia
from the foe, who had indeed for nearly two years ceased to molest
England.

But as she gazed, her attention was attracted to a light on the
opposite hills. It was a fire of some kind, and rose up more and more
fiercely each moment. It was but a bonfire in appearance, yet it
marred both the landscape and the meditative rest of the gazer.

The party from the hall were returning home from the church.

"Father," said Bertric, "look at that light! Is it not singular? I
never saw one there before."

But even while they looked another fire appeared in an opposite