Delphi Complete Works of Ann Radcliffe (Illustrated) (237 page)

He followed by darkened forest side;

He followed with dread, though link’d in mail;

Till it stayed before an iron gate,

Where battled turrets kept their state,

O’er towers so high and massy strong,

They seemed to giant-king belong.

VII.

Sir Adomar looked him all around:

Turret on turret hung on high,

Shaping black lines on the dim sky;

Sir Adomar looked him all around;

Nought, save this castle, could he spy,

Though, heavily clanged a death-bell’s sound;

And in each pause of the shuddering blast,

Moans were heard as of one from ‘neath the ground!

VIII.

He struck on the gate with his good sword:

“Ho! wardour, ho!” but never a word

Return’d the wardour from within.

“The storm is loud, the night is dark,

I hear from the woods the dog-wolf bark.

Up, wardour, up! it were a sin

To turn a traveller from your tower,

At such a lone and dreary hour;

A Saracen would let me in!”

IX.

The wardour was watching through the loop,

How many were of the stranger’s troop.

He had left his torch in the cullis’ bar,

And it let down a light on the lonely night,

That showed him harnessed, as for war.

His coat was mail, his helm was steel;

His visor did his look reveal;

Yet o’er his brow it cast a shade,

That made the wardour more afraid,

Than did the crimsoned plume above,

Or the mighty grasp of his iron glove.

He would not let the stranger in,

Till one, awakened by the din —

One whom the wardour need obey —

Seeing a lonely knight stand there,

Bade the wardour nought to fear:

He feared still, but he said not Nay:

Yet he would not ope the portal gate

To an unknown knight, without his state;

For neither squire, nor page, he saw:

He bade him then to the postern draw.

X.

The knight dismounted at the call;

The porter let him through the wall;

He turned the weary steed to stall,

And led the knight to the lordly hall.

I’ the lordly hall, so wide and dim,

One drowsy squire awaited him.

The ashy wood lay, white and cold,

On the raised hearth, where late was told,

With fiery eye and accent loud,

The deed of martial prowess proud;

Where late was told, in whispers low,

Some tale of terror and of woe,

The while each listener bent his head,

Nor lost a word the trouveur said:

Till fear crept o’er each nerve and vein,

That late had swell’d to martial strain;

And shadows crept along the wall,

Such as the sinful soul appal:

Till each, who heard, look’d round with dread,

And saw some phantom of the dead.

XI.

Now silent was the hearth and lone,

Save that a stag-hound slumber’d there.

The tables in disorder were,

With relics of the evening fare;

The household to their rest were gone,

And now no light was seen but one.

The light that led the stranger on;

That show’d above steel armour gleaming,

And many a dusky banner streaming,

From the black rafters of the roof,

In the night-wind, far aloof,

Like to some flitting phantom seeming;

And, stalking o’er the rushy floor,

It showed the knight where steps of gore

Had stain’d its green, with foot-prints red.

And the stag-hound, as the knight passed by,

Sent forth a mournful fearful cry.

XII.

The drowsy squire the stranger led;

(The wardour to his post was sped.)

They traversed the hall in silent march:

At the end was a door in a mitred arch.

The knight stood before that mitred door,

And gazed on a warrior shape above,

That seem’d to watch the passage o’er.

In his altered look strange passions strove!

The armoured shape leaned on its sword,

And downward bent its steely face,

As jealous who below might pace,

Or about to speak the challenge-word;

And it seemed the very form of one,

The knight perforce must look upon.

XIII.

Thus, while he stood in wonder-trance,

The squire upheld the torch on high,

Viewing the guest with watchful eye;

And marvelling what strange mischance

So check’d his step, and fix’d his glance: —

“Sir knight, why gaze you on that steel?

It is a baron’s good and bold;

Had he been here, no welcome cold

Would he have shown a stranger-knight,

Who trusted to his towers at night.”

XIV.

The spell of fant’sie loos’d awhile,

The knight return’d a grateful smile,

With thanks for this so courteous style;

And, then with thoughtful accent said,

While yet he stood, that shape before.

“The armour some resemblance had

To that of a dear friend no more!

A friend!” — he paus’d,— “a friend long dead!”

This, while he said, his colour fled.

The squire seem’d not to note his pain,

But, with fair speech, began again

Excuse to make for slender fare,

That it was night, and, not aware

Of honour’d guest approaching there,

The menials to their rest had gone;

A chamber should be fitted soon.

His squire and page should welcom’d be;

Right well he longed that squire to see.

XV.

The wearied knight a gesture made,

And looked his thanks, but nothing said;

Save that, for rest alone he prayed.

He sighed, as through that guarded arch,

And vaulted gloom, he held his march;

And there, before his doubting sight,

Glided again a pale sad light,

Full often he had seen with fear,

Yet more he felt to meet it here.

Then came they to an iron door,

And the knight beheld that flame no more.

It opened to a second hall,

Where warriors frowned upon the wall;

And ladies smiled in portraiture,

With downcast eye and look demure.

An umbered flash the red torch threw,

Athwart each warrior’s steadfast brow;

And hardly might the gleam declare

A baron grim from lady fair.

XVI.

There is no need that I should tell,

What hasty fare the stranger took;

Nor how the squire, with silent look,

Watched, wondering, what had him befell;

So strangely gleamed his hollow eyes,

From forth the lifted beaver’s shade

So wan his lips, like one that dies,

So few the words and thanks he paid!

XVII.

Though round the hall his looks would steal,

Not well did torch or lamp reveal

The portraiture of warriors grim,

Or noble dames hung there so dim;

Their frowns and smiles were lost to him,

But once, when that he turned his head

Where the fix’d torch a gleaming shed,

A sable form, ill seen at most,

Went gliding up a stair, on high,

Passed through an open gallery,

And through a doorway there was lost,

That seemed to lead to antient rooms,

Such as where silence dwells, and glooms.

The knight, he felt a sudden chill.

Though nought he said of what had sped;

But the spicy draught he deeply quaff’d,

Whenever the page his cup did fill.

And from his spirits chaced the ill.

XVIII.

The night-cheer o’er, the page led on

The stranger to his resting-place.

He led the way, that form had gone:

On the high stair he stood a space,

Waiting the knight’s reluctant pace,

Then, with mute reverence, marshalled him

Through many a gallery, long and dim,

Where helmets watched, in order grim;

Through many a chamber, wide and lorn,

Where wint’ry damps had half withdrawn

The storied paintings on the wall.

Electra, o’er her brother’s urn,

There bent the head, and seemed to mourn;

There, too, as meet in room and hall,

Troy’s tale and Hector’s piteous fall:

Here Priam’s Court, in purple and pall,

Its golden splendour now had lost;

But Helen, on the rampart stood,

And pointed to the Grecian host,

Outstretching to the briny flood.

Here Hector’s wife sat in her bower,

Waiting her lord’s returning hour;

And ‘broidering ‘midst her maiden train,

While her infant played with silken skein.

There — but it boots not that I say,

What stories once, in long array,

Lived on those walls, now ghastly clay.

XIX.

The knight would oft, as he strode by,

Cast on their shade a searching eye;

And pause, as list’ning some drear sound,

That rose within the glimmering bound:

And start, as though some fearful sight

Passed along this gloom of night;

But, at a lesser winding stair,

(The long drawn chambers ended there,)

When to that narrow stair he drew,

He thought a robe of mourning hue

Went fleeting up that winding way;

No glimpse had he of shape or ray;

No foot he heard the stair ascend.

Yet still that seeming garment passed,

As though some fiend, with evil haste,

Did up that lonely tower wend.

XX.

The knight, he stood on the step below —

“Whither, my young page, dost thou go?

Who dwells within this lonely tower,

Passing with speed, in sable weed —

Passing with speed, at this dead hour?”

“Nobody, save the raven-crow,

Dwells within this lonely tower;

And here, Sir knight, is your resting-bower!”

“But in this tower I may not rest,

Till I know who that stair has pressed;

Did you not see that black weed wave?”

“Yes, knight, I saw the raven’s wing,

Glint up that wall with sudden spring:

And hark! you now may hear him crave!”

XXI.

“It is not courteous, that my bower

Should be within this ruin’d tower!”

“But see, knight, ‘tis not in decay;

The storm hath blown a bar away,

And the raven through the loop doth stray;

His nest is wet on the battlement grey:

Your chamber is a stately room,