XVIII.

But though, in the monastic pile, Did of this penitential aisle Some vague tradition go, Few only, save the Abbot, knew Where the place lay; and still more few Were those, who had from him the clue To that dread vault to go. Victim and executioner Were blindfold when transported there. In low dark rounds the arches hung, From the rude rock the side-walls sprung; The grave-stones, rudely sculptured o’er, Half sunk in earth, by time half wore, Were all the pavement of the floor; The mildew-drops fell one by one, With tinkling plash upon the stone. A cresset, in an iron chain, Which served to light this drear domain, With damp and darkness seemed to strive, As if it scarce might keep alive; And yet it dimly served to show The awful conclave met below.