It was Tristram Lyndwood, and the
body was that of Mabel. Her tresses were dishevelled, and dripping
with wet, as were her garments; and her features white as marble. The
old man was weeping bitterly.
With Wyat, to dismount and grasp the cold hand of the hapless maiden
was the work of a moment.
"She is dead!" he cried, in a despairing voice, removing the dank
tresses from her brow, and imprinting a reverent kiss upon it. "Dead !--
lost to me for ever!"
"I found her entangled among those water-weeds," said Tristram, in
tones broken by emotion," and had just dragged her to shore when you
came up. As you hope to prosper, now and hereafter, give her a decent
burial. For me all is over."
And, with a lamentable cry, he plunged into the lake, struck out to a
short distance, and then sank to rise no more.
THUS ENDS THE FIFTH BOOK OF THE CHRONICLE OF WlNDSOR CASTLE
BOOK VI JANE SEYMOUR
I. Of Henry's Attachment to Jane Seymour.
ON the anniversary of Saint George, 1536, and exactly seven years from
the opening of this chronicle, Henry assembled the knights-companions
within Windsor Castle to hold the grand feast of the most noble Order of
the Garter.
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