fictions, all gave fresh zest to the imagination, and filled the heart
of its votary with a species of devotion and excitement, which would now
be considered as mere visionary madness, little in accordance with the
true spirit of piety or acceptable to the Most High, but which was then
regarded as meritorious; and even as we look back upon the saints and
heroes of the past, even now should not be condemned; for, according to
the light bestowed, so is devotion demanded and accepted by the God of
all.

Nigel Bruce had paused in his hasty walk, and leaning against the pillar
round which his armor hung, fixed his eyes for a space on the large
oriel window we have named, whose outline was but faintly discernible,
save on the left side, which was dimly illumined by the silver lamp
burning in the shrine of St. Stephen, close beside which the youthful
warrior stood. The storm had suddenly sunk into an awful and almost
portentous silence; and in that brief interval of stillness and gloom,
Nigel felt his blood flow more calmly in his veins, his pulses stilled
their starting throbs, and the young soldier crossed his arms on his
breast, and bent his uncovered head upon them in silent yet earnest
prayer.

The deep, solemn chime of the abbey-bell, echoing like a spirit-voice
through the arched and silent church, roused him, and he looked up. At
the same moment a strong and awfully brilliant flash of lightning darted
through the window on which his eyes were fixed, followed by a mighty
peal of thunder, longer and louder than any that had come before. For
above a minute that blue flash lingered playing, it seemed, on steel,
and a cold shuddering thrill crept through the frame of Nigel Bruce,
sending the life-blood from his cheek back to his very heart, for either
fancy had again assumed her sway, and more vividly than before, or his