XXVII.

Apart, and nestling in the hay Of a waste loft, Fitz-Eustace lay; Scarce by the pale moonlight, were 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, Or, lighter yet, of lady’s love. A cautious tread his slumber broke, And close beside him, when he woke, In moonbeam half, and half in gloom, Stood a tall form, with nodding plume; But ere his dagger Eustace drew, His master Marmion’s voice he knew.