"He leaned upon his pilgrim's staff, and to the mill he drew--
So altered was his goodly form that none their master knew.
The baron to the miller said, 'Good friend, for charity,
Tell a poor pilgrim, in your land, what tidings may there be?'

"The miller answered him again--'He knew of little news,
Save that the lady of the land did a new bridegroom choose;
Her husband died in distant land, such is the constant word,
His death sits heavy on our souls, he was a worthy lord.

"'Of him I held the little mill, which wins me living free--
God rest the baron in his grave, he aye was kind to me!
And when St. Martin's tide comes round, and millers take their toll,
The priest that prays for Moringer shall have both cope and stole.'"

The baron proceeds to the Castle gate, which is bolted to prevent
intrusion, while the inside of the mansion rung with preparations
for the marriage of the lady. The pilgrim prayed the porter for
entrance, conjuring him by his own sufferings, and for the sake of
the late Moringer; by the orders of his lady, the warder gave him
admittance.

"Then up the hall paced Moringer, his step was sad and slow;
It sat full heavy on his heart, none seemed their lord to know.
He sat him on a lowly bench, oppressed with wo and wrong;
Short while he sat, but ne'er to him seemed little space so long.

"Now spent was day, and feasting o'er, and come was evening hour,
The time was nigh when new made brides retire to nuptial bower,
'Our Castle's wont,' a bride's man said, 'hath been both firm and long--