It was late one fine evening in September, when a boat, borne along by a single sail, passed over the narrow sea which divides Lindisfarne from the mainland, and moored itself within the small bay of the island. The moon was beginning to rise; and by her silvering outline, already distinguished the venerable relics of Saint Cuthbert's monastery from the shadows of twilight.

Two persons wrapped in large cloaks, and followed by one who seemed a servant, rose from the boat; and giving a piece of gold to their solitary navigator, stepped on shore. The elder of the two made the sign of the cross upon his breast, and with his eyes bent to the ground, walked slowly forward. The younger performed the same act of devotion, though in a less fixed manner, and shivering as he looked up to the flying clouds, followed his companion. Having proceeded over sand and shingle without discerning any thing like an inhabited dwelling, he began to doubt the boatman's information respecting the situation of their purposed lodgings; and, looking around for some other intelligence, perceived a group of fishermen on a shelve of the rock.—By the assistance of his servant, he scrambled up the acclivity, and enquired the way to the Reverend Richard Athelstone's.—One of the men, raising himself from the heap of gathered nets they had been drying on the rocks, pointed along the top of the cliff, and told him to keep on, west of the abbey, when he would soon see the church, and the Pastor's house beside it.

The travellers proceeded a little way in the direction given: but finding that the dubious light bewildered them amongst rocks, ruins, and trees, the younger returned to the fisherman, and begged he would conduct them to Mr. Athelstone's. This request was obeyed with the same direct compliance as his question had been answered; and the man, throwing his net over his shoulder, trudged on before the travellers.—The elder pursued his way in devout abstraction. His eyes were fixed on the distant tower of the monastery; which, to his musing fancy, seemed to stand alone in the bright horizon, like the still hovering shade of the glorified saint of the island.

The way to the Pastor's dwelling lay by the ruins of the wall which had once surrounded the monastery. As the travellers approached it, the roofless aisles and broken arches stood white in the moon-beam; and the windows, partially obscured by the withered stone-crop which sprung from their mouldering columns, threw a checquered light on the half-sunk monuments below.—The youth, fatigued in limbs, and depressed in spirits, drew near his companion. The elder traveller pressed the nerveless arm that now rested upon his, and said in a low voice, "What desolation is here!—Ah, my son, how can we expect peace in the counsels, or virtue in the conduct of a people who thus dishonour the tombs of the saints."

"Alas, my lord," replied the young man, "if we must estimate the piety of nations by the unanimity of their councils, we have not much reason to congratulate ourselves on the holiness of Spain!—Why," added he with asperity, "did her vacillating policy drag us from peaceful Italy?—But for that, we might never have visited these rugged shores."

"Ferdinand," rejoined his father, "the disease of your heart, makes you misjudge your country.—Spain has her errors.—But no comparison can be justly drawn between a people that respect the Faith, even to hallowing the ashes of its apostles; and a race of men, who trample alike on the rights of their kings, and the ordinances of the church:—No good can come to such a people!"

The young man shuddered. "At least," exclaimed he, "no good can come to us, in so excommunicated a land:—though I shall not be sorry to shelter myself from so cutting a blast, even within the condemned cell of the heretic Cura of the island."

The travellers continued to follow their guide over rough ground covered with loose stones, and rendered intricate by the stunted trees which grew in scattered loneliness amongst the detached masses of the decayed monastery. Through the shadowy arches of what had once been a passage to the west cloisters, they espied a distant light.

"For your sake, my son," said the elder stranger, "I hope that portends we are near houses!"

"I hope so too," rejoined Ferdinand, "but I also fear, it may be only the lantern of some vessel, more lucky than we were, passing this desolate rock."

Having made their way through the varied gloom of the ruins, they came out on a smooth sheep-path.—The abbey now lay behind them.—Before them, rose the spire of the parish church; and near it, in holy fellowship, stood the parsonage; from whose ivy-latticed window still streamed the friendly ray which had guided them to its gate.

"This be our pastor's,—and God's blessing abide with him and his!" said the fisherman, pointing with a bow to the house.—Ferdinand put money into the man's hand; and then followed his father and their servant through a wicket into a little green court. They crossed its soft grass, and stooping beneath a low stone porch, knocked at the house-door. It was opened by a hoary-headed servant, of a hale and cheerful aspect. The elder stranger asked for the Reverend Richard Athelstone. The old man immediately opened a door at his right hand; and without other reply than a respectful bow, ushered the travellers into the presence of his master.

The venerable pastor of Lindisfarne advanced to meet his visitors; who, though unannounced, he saw by their air were foreigners and gentlemen. The elder apologized for their appearance at so late an hour; saying, they had arrived from Holland at Berwick that morning in the midst of a storm. "But," said he, "when so fine an evening succeeded, I became too impatient to tread the sacred shore of Lindisfarne; and to deliver a packet entrusted to me by the Grand-Pensionary Hensius, to delay my coming until another day."

As the stranger spoke, he presented the packet. Mr. Athelstone received it with a hospitable smile: and turning to a lady, who sat with two younger ones at a work-table near the fire; "Mrs. Coningsby, my dear niece," said he, "welcome these gentlemen; they come from a friend of your father's."

The lady rose; and gracefully obeyed, by expressing her reverence for the Grand-Pensionary; and the pleasure she felt in seeing Lindisfarne honoured by his remembrance in the persons of his friends. She then introduced the young ladies as her daughters. The eldest she called Cornelia, and the youngest Alice. They cast down their eyes, and bowed their fair necks to the strangers, as their mother named them:—and when, on observing the pale countenance of Ferdinand, she invited the two gentlemen to draw nearer the fire; the sisters moved their chairs back, and pursued their needle-work with redoubled industry.

Mr. Athelstone took a hasty survey of the Grand-Pensionary's letter; and folding it up, repeated his former polite greeting with the cordial addition of taking the strangers each by the hand.

"Pleased as I was to receive any friend of the Baron Hensius," said he, "how must my pleasure be increased, when I see in that friend the Marquis Santa Cruz!"

"The Marquis Santa Cruz!" repeated Mrs. Coningsby, in a tone of delightful surprize.

The Pastor smiled.—"Your name, my lord, has long been with us. Fame had given it to the world at large; but it was brought to our remote shores by your noble antagonist Prince Eugene of Savoy."

With a bow to the implied compliment, the Marquis inquired how recently the Prince had been in England.

"Not very lately," replied Mr. Athelstone, "my acquaintance with His Highness must be dated one and twenty years back; in the spring of 1704, when he came to England on a secret mission from the Emperor of Germany.—Having gained our queen's concurrence to support the Imperialists against Bavaria, Prince Eugene and the Duke of Marlborough embarked for Holland. Stress of weather drove their vessel on this coast. I then inhabited Bamborough-Castle, during the absence of my brother Sir Hedworth Athelstone; and going to the beach to offer the usual assistance to distressed mariners, I discovered my friend the Duke, and his noble compeer, in two nameless passengers. They took up their residence with me till the tempest subsided, and it lasted many days; but remaining unknown to the country, they gave the whole of their society to myself and my niece. It was then, my lord, that in discoursing on the great and good of all countries, Prince Eugene named with friendship the Marquis Santa Cruz; who, he said, had baffled his best military skill the preceding year in Italy."

An answering glow of generous admiration suffused the face of the Marquis. "Eugene of Savoy," returned he, "can afford such acknowledgements. And, that I did discover, and baffle his designs before the dyke of Zero, I have ever considered the proudest fortune which has hitherto been granted to my military career. Since that period, I have often met the Prince, both in the field and in the cabinet: and in every character, whether as soldier or as statesman, he has manifested that nobleness of soul which commands alike the confidence of friends and of enemies."

A blush overspread the fine, though matron features of Mrs. Coningsby. "Ah, my dear uncle," cried she, "why does not Louis hear this, from the Marquis Santa Cruz?" Then rising, she said she would enquire about his return, and left the room.

"Does Mrs. Coningsby speak of her son?" asked the Marquis.

"No," said the Pastor, "the young man she alludes to is the son of her elder sister, now in a better world. His father, you doubtless know; the Baron de Ripperda."

"I have not been in Spain these ten years," replied the Marquis; "but I know the Baron is now there; and introducing plans of internal policy, worthy the emulation of his own times, and the gratitude of future ages.—Before happy circumstances restored him to Spain, it was never my good fortune to meet him in any of my accidental visits to the Netherlands."

Mr. Athelstone and his noble guest continued their discourse on the public history of the Baron de Ripperda. Remarking, with some loyal animadversions, on his father Don Juan de Montemar Duke de Ripperda, who, in resentment for some slight from his sovereign, left Spain for the Netherlands; and, joining himself to the United States, exchanged his Spanish rank for that of a northern baron.—While the Marquis regretted that his son, the present illustrious Ripperda, had ever belonged to any other country than that of his ancestors, he expatiated with the pride of a Spaniard on the talents which were now reclaimed by their parent land. Mr. Athelstone, who had all the old-fashioned notions respecting amor patriÆ, rejoined that the satisfactory accomplishment of Baron de Ripperda's mission as ambassador from the Netherlands to Madrid, had empowered him to resign with honour his bonds to their country; and to resume his hereditary rights in Spain in the manner best calculated to re-establish his house, and to transmit the ancient glories of his family.

While the Pastor and his guest were engaged in this conversation, Ferdinand leaned exhausted in his chair; and had leisure to survey the domestic scene around him; so different from the solitude he had anticipated in the condemned cell of the heretic Cura of the island!—From the window of the room in which he now sat, still issued the light he had seen from afar; and which had beaconed his weary steps to his present comfortable station by its source; a cheerful fire, and a cluster of blazing candles on its chimney-piece.

Ferdinand could not have been so long in Italy without forming a taste in architecture; and he contemplated with admiring curiosity this specimen of Gothic workmanship. It was of a cinque-foil shape, supported by short columns on brackets, and adorned with a projecting frieze, on which stood the lighted branches, with alabaster vases full of autumnal flowers. It appeared to have been translated from some building of older date; and, indeed, little more than a century before, this very arch had mantled the Abbot's hearth in the good monastery of Lindisfarne.

Ferdinand next looked at the oak-pannelled walls of the room, enlivened by a range of fine portraits in carved ebony frames. These, with a cabinet of curious china, a harpsichord, a well-stored bookcase, and the usual complement of sofas and chairs, completed the furniture. He did not take so cursory a view of its inhabitants. The venerable master of the house sat on one side of the fire-place, talking with the Marquis. His silvered hair and benign countenance, blanched and worn by seventy winters, seemed to announce how nearly the divine spirit within had shaken off its earthly tabernacle. The Marquis had never before regarded an avowed minister of the Reformation, without a distance in his manner that proclaimed I am near pollution! but now he sat listening to the Pastor with so cordial an air, that Ferdinand murmured to himself; "Ah! my father, it is too late for your unhappy son, should your present feelings towards that good man, indeed, draw away the only prejudice from your noble heart!" He sighed heavily, and turned his attention to the other side of the room.

The sisters had withdrawn their chairs far from the fire-side circle, and were plying their needles with indefatigable diligence. Cornelia's raven hair was braided back from her polished brow, and confined in a knot with a gold bodkin. The majestic contour of her features suited well with her Roman name; and the simplicity of the plain white garment in which she was arrayed, harmonized with the modest dignity of a figure, which proclaimed in every movement that the nobility of the soul needs no foreign ornament! As her fair hand traversed the embroidery frame, Ferdinand turned from these lofty beauties, to the gentle Alice; whose charms, if of a feebler, were of a subtler force. Her head, which moved about rather oftener than her sister's, in search of silk, scissors, and needles, gave free scope to the contemplation of the young Spaniard. She appeared several years younger than Cornelia. Her form was fairy in its proportions; slight, airy, and apparently impalpable to aught but the touch of a sylph. Her azure eyes, glancing around for what she sought, shone so lucidly bright from under her flaxen locks, that Ferdinand thought he had never seen eyes so beautiful; "Never," said he to himself, "so divinely innocent; never so irresistibly exhilarating."

He continued to gaze, till some bitter recollections caused him to cover his eyes with his hand; but soon withdrawing it, he looked again upon Alice; and longed to hear her speak, while a sudden self-gratulation on how fluently he could himself discourse in English, animated his before languid features. He observed her turn her head towards the yet uncurtained window. The moon was now holding her bright course in the heavens, without meeting the passing shadow of a single cloud. He seized the opportunity to address the sisters, and remarked the beauty of the night.

"It is calmer than usual, after so tempestuous a day," observed Cornelia.

"I am glad the winds are quiet," said Alice; "for we may now look for Louis, without fear of the breakers."

Ferdinand enquired whether her cousin were to cross the sea that night.

"We hope so," replied she; "he went yesterday to Bamborough Castle; and I am sure nothing but the storm prevented his returning to us this morning."

"Whatever may be the attractions of Bamborough Castle," rejoined Ferdinand, "I cannot be surprised your cousin should prefer his home to all other places." He accompanied this remark with that sort of smile and bow to Alice, which a woman of the world would have understood as a compliment to herself; but Alice was too ignorant of the gallantries of fashionable society, to see anything in this, but the obvious meaning of the words. Cornelia received the speech as her sister had done; and exclaimed with a sigh, "I wish Louis did prefer his home to all other places!"

"Why say that, Cornelia?" said Alice; "you know how he loves us all; how he despises the people he meets at the Castle; and you cannot seriously doubt our dear Louis's preference of home to all other places!"

Ferdinand did not perceive the grounds of conclusion which the fair Alice drew from her argument, but he admired her brightening eyes as she uttered this hasty defence; which he readily apprehended was intended, rather as a palliation to him of her cousin's absence, than any refutation to her sister. Cornelia appeared to understand the same; for she did not reply, but pensively resumed her embroidery. Alice now became confused; regarding the silence of her sister as a reproof for her having said so much before a stranger, she turned away her head, and with trembling hands re-commenced her work.—Ferdinand did not withdraw his eyes from the little table. He wished to see the fortunate cousin, upon whom these lovely sisters lavished so much solicitude; and he was curious to know who the inhabitants of the castle were, whose attractions could excite jealousy in young women so full of charms.

While he was thus ruminating, Mrs. Coningsby entered, to lead her uncle's guests to the supper room. Before they obeyed her hospitable summons, the Marquis requested that he and his son might retire to disencumber themselves of their travelling accoutrements; and when they had withdrawn, the Pastor took that interval to inform his niece and daughters, that the noble Spaniards were to be his guests for some days.—He read apart to Mrs. Coningsby, the passage of Baron Hensius's letter, which mentioned that Don Ferdinand d'Osorio, the Marquis's only son, was the primary cause of this visit to England.—On the Marquis's recall from his diplomatic situation in Italy, he stopped a few months at Vienna, where his wife's family reside. In that city, Don Ferdinand was seized with a fever on his spirits, which menaced his life.—Medical skill was exhausted; and as a lost hope, the physicians ordered him to travel. His father knew this darling son had a fatal bond in the Austrian capital; he therefore saw no alternative but to apply secretly to Spain for the royal mandate, to send both father and son on a seemingly official tour to Holland and Great Britain. It arrived, and the travellers set forward. In Holland, Don Ferdinand's disorder re-doubled.—The Amsterdam physicians recommended a sea voyage, and the bracing air of the north; and as the desponding invalid now appeared indifferent to his fate, the Marquis determined on entering Great Britain by Scotland. He knew that Lindisfarne, the Holy Island of unnumbered saints, lay in the way; and full of parental anxiety, he formed a wish, which he communicated to Baron Hensius, of propitiating a peculiar blessing on this part of his tour, by paying his vows at the shrine of Saint Cuthbert.

"My friend warns me," continued the Pastor, addressing his younger nieces as well as their mother; "that the Marquis Santa Cruz is a Roman Catholic in the severest sense of the term.—That his mind, enlightened on every other subject, is here under an impenetrable cloud. Indeed, his errand hither is a sufficient proof of his mental darkness. He brings his son to this island, to touch the dead man's bones, and be healed; and he neglects the living presence of his Saviour, who has only to will it, and it is done!—Oh, my children, here is a lesson to humble the pride of intellect, and to fill you with awe before the Creator of your reason, and the revealer of his word!—Reason, when hearkening to revelation, must be as a little child; not as an idiot, that receives all, and does all, without understanding the nature of the command;—but as a little child, humble and intelligent, eager to apprehend the truth, and ready to obey it. Such a little child as that which appeared with the Doctors in the Temple, hearing and asking them questions, Mark you!—He did not then speak as one having authority, but he came to hear, and to inquire!—In all things, He is our example; and that example bids us search the Scriptures for truth; and to apply to God alone, through one Mediator for salvation here and here-after."

Mrs. Coningsby did not answer her uncle, but pressed the hands of her listening daughters; who cast down their eyes in reverence of their beloved teacher and his divine subject.—Mr. Athelstone paused a few minutes, and resumed.

"The Grand-Pensionary, being aware how happy I should be to see the Marquis Santa Cruz, and to render every service in my power to his invalid son, gave him this letter, which has introduced to us two such interesting persons.—So now, my dear niece, you must do your part, in the shape of aired rooms and nourishing diet; and I will try to perform mine so, as to induce the father and son to become our guests for as many weeks, as they have purposed days:—They would be visitors after Louis's own heart."

"I thought the young Spanish nobleman looked very ill," observed Alice in a tone of pity; "he leaned so languidly in his chair; and his large dark eyes moved so heavily, it seemed a labour for him to turn them even from me to my sister; though we sat close together.—Poor young man!—And how kindly he asked about Louis!—Did not you, Cornelia, think he looked ill?"

"Indeed," said her sister, "I scarcely noticed his looks at all; which I am sorry for.—He must have thought us most unfeelingly inattentive, to allow an invalid to sit so long in a hot room with that heavy cloak on."

"I rather think the fault was mine," rejoined their mother, "but the remembrances of past days had totally obscured present objects. And, as another proof of it, my dear Sir;" said she, turning to the Pastor; "I had forgotten to tell you that the boatman has returned from Bamborough without Louis; and bearing no other message than Sir Anthony Athelstone's respects, and Mr. de Montemar will remain at the castle the remainder of the week."

Further remarks were prevented by the re-entrance of the travellers. They were conducted by their hospitable host to the supper-room; and after partaking of its northern fare with good appetites, Mrs. Coningsby led the Marquis and his son to the doors of their apartments, where she bade them adieu for the night.