XXVIII.

“Fitz-Eustace! rise,—I cannot rest;— Yon churl’s wild legend haunts my breast, And graver thoughts have chafed my mood; 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 Thou dost not rouse these drowsy slaves; I would not, that the prating knaves Had cause for saying, o’er their ale, 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:—