Chapter V

But o’er the mountains pacing
As fast as he can flee,
Strange steps his steps are tracing,
And a shape he cannot see;
And, though he flee away, so prest,
Whether to north, or south or west,
Toward the past, or coming day,
(So dim the night he may not say)
Still oft by fits did ghastly gleam,
A corpse-light, all unknown to him.