For pillow, underneath each head, The quiver and the targe were laid: Oppressed with toil and ale, they snore: Threw on the groupe its shadows strange. XXVII. Apart, and nestling in the hay Of a waste loft, Fitz-Eustace lay; Scarce, by the pale moonlight, was seen The foldings of his mantle green : Lightly he dreamt, as youth will dream, Of sport by thicket, or by stream, Of hawk or hound, of ring or glove, A cautious tread his slumber broke, But, ere his dagger Eustace drew, His master Marmion's voice he knew. XXVIII. "Fitz-Eustace! rise,-I cannot rest; Yon churl's wild legend haunts my breast, The air must cool my feverish blood; And fain would I ride forth, to see The scene of elfin chivalry. Arise, and saddle me my steed; And, gentle Eustace, take good heed I would not, that the prating knaves That I could credit such a tale." Then softly down the steps they slid, Eustace the stable door undid, And, darkling, Marmion's steed arrayed, While, whispering, thus the Baron said :--- XXIX. "Did'st never, good my youth, hear tell, That on the hour when I was born, St. George, who graced my sire's chapelle, The flattering chaplains all agree, Vain thought! for elves, if elves there be, An empty race, by fount or sea, To dashing waters dance and sing, Or round the green oak wheel their ring."Thus speaking, he his steed bestrode, And from the hostel slowly rode. XXX. Fitz-Eustace followed him abroad, And marked him pace the village road, And listened to his horse's tramp, Till, by the lessening sound, He judged that of the Pictish camp Lord Marmion sought the round. Wonder it seemed, in the squire's eyes, That one, so wary held, and wise, Of whom 'twas said, he scarce received For gospel, what the church believed,Should, stirred by idle tale, Ride forth in silence of the night, As hoping half to meet a sprite, For little did Fitz-Eustace know, That passions, in contending flow, Unfix the strongest mind; Wearied from doubt to doubt to flee, We welcome fond credulity, Guide confident, though blind. XXXI. Little for this Fitz-Eustace cared, But, patient, waited till he heard, At distance, pricked to utmost speed, Come town-ward rushing on: First, dead, as if on turf it trode, Then, clattering on the village road, In other pace than forth he yode* Returned Lord Marmion. Down hastily he sprung from selle, The falcon crest was soiled with clay; * Used by old poets for went, |