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20 ISABEL OF ANGOULESME- continued, “I know not, Sir King, by what right thou commandest this holy father to stop; but if by the laws of power, I bid thee defiance. John of England, I claim this lady as my wife!”

“Wife!” exclaimed John, in a transport of rage, “Wife! Girl, hast thou fooled us?” to Alice. “Speak, holy father, how far has this ceremony proceeded?” he continued to the priest.

But the holy man's answer was interrupted by Isabel, who, at John's appeal to Alice, had flown from the altar, and now, standing by the abigail, she bent her eyes wildly and piercingly on her, exclaiming, “Girl, if 'tis true thou hast done this oh! now I recal the lost veil, and the bracelet; Alice, Alice, may He who sees the most secret thoughts forgive thee.”

“Peace, daughter!” now interrupted the priest; “John of England, in answer to thy question, I bid thee, as thou reverest the holy mother church, to allow the scarcely commenced ceremony to proceed.”

“So: 'tis well,” said John, bending an amorous glance on Isabel, “Angoulesme, we are yet in time.”

“Angoulesme!” screamed Isabel, “is then my father here? “and she rushed towards the tall armour cased figure, which had stood by John's side on his entrance; and in whom, as he raised his helmet, she recognised her parent.

“Count of Angoulesme!” resumed the deep musical tones of the priest, “it rests with thee alone to settle this disgraceful dispute. I command all here to silence, while this lovely lady's father speaks his will.”

Instantly a death like silence reigned in the holy edifice, and the Count of Angoulesme spoke:

“Isabel,” (she fixed her eyes in agony on him) “'tis my command you receive the King of England as-”

“No, no, dearest father,” she interrupted, and clasped his knees as she knelt before him; “no, no, you cannot mean this. Did not that revered hand place me beneath the protection of La Marche, till my age should fit me for his wife? Father, that time has arrived thou wilt not tear me from him now?”

For a moment he seemed moved, and even a tear trickled down his steeled corslet; but quickly recovering himself, he raised his child, saying, “Isabel, I had not expected disobedience from thee; but I would speak with thee apart; meanwhile I charge thee, Count de la Marche, restrain your words.”

La Marche bowed a cold acquiescence; then fixed the point of his sword in the oaken floor, placing one hand on the hilt, while the other leaned on the altar. John also stood at the head of his men, preserving a sullen silence, occasionally bending a look of triumph on his rival, or an amorous glance on Isabel, as she paced the farther end of the chapel in earnest conversation with her father.

Ever and anon, as they stepped where the blaze of the tapers surrounding the altar shone upon them, La Marche caught the agonized expression of Isabel's features, and occasionally some few words.

“Isabel, my child, I charge thee -I implore thee, publish not my disgrace!” was uttered by Angoulesme, in reply to a firm “never!” from his daughter.

La Marche sprang to the side of his pale bride, clasped her waist, and exclaimed,” Believe him not, he is working on the devotion of thy filial love telling thee his ruin or his exaltation depends on thee; I know it, but it is false, dearest, false!”

“Hey day, Sir Springald; false, sayest thou? Does it well become the would be husband of a maiden to tell her her father lies?” said John, scornfully.

“John of England,” replied La Marche,” there are more fitting places than this to beard La Marche. Know that henceforth I swear, even in this holy place, revenge to thee till death. My Lord of Angoulesme, thou knowest thyself safe in the title of father.”

“Nay,” returned Angoulesme, with a bitter smile,” I care not if I condescend to try good steel with thee at my leisure. Now I have more weighty business pressing on me.” Then turning to Isabel, “Hath a father to tell his child she may rely on his words?”

“No, oh no!” she answered; and gathering her white veil around her face, bent her head on her hands for a few minutes; then raising her tearless eyes to La Marche, said firmly, “La Marche, my first and last love, fare thee well!”

She stopped not to look on his death like brow, and quivering lip, but stepped tremblingly towards John. He drew the pearl wreath from beneath his cloak, and held it towards her. “John of England, I am thine,” she exclaimed, as she bent her brow to receive it; “and may the Holy Virgin plead with her son for thee and my father, if he hath deceived me.”

“To horse! to horse, now, my brave knights! Behold your Queen!” The men bowed lowly to the fair girl. “And now, for thee,” continued John, turning to Alice,” what I promised thee is there,” flinging towards her a purse. Then raising the feeble Isabel in his arms, he bore her to a beautiful palfry; and in a few minutes the distant sound of the horses' hoofs brought to the mind of La Marche the utter desolation of his soul.

“And now to study revenge!” he groaned forth; yet, ere he left the chapel, turned to Alice, and exclaimed,” Go, girl, wed him who loveth thee; and enjoy, if thou canst, thy basely earned wealth. I forgive thee or, at least, I hope I do—— ”

“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed the girl, holding the purse to the light, through which shone many a golden piece. “Listen, Count la Marche! Thou knowest I once followed thy steps with love thou scornedst now I am revenged; farewell!” and she flew madly from the chapel.

What she had just said he knew to be true.She had sought him unceasingly; repeating her