Chapter XVII

Though round the hall his looks would steal,
Not well did torch or lamp reveal
The portraiture of warriors grim,
Or noble dames hung there so dim;
Their frowns and smiles were lost to him.
But once, when that he turned his head
Where the fix’d torch a gleaming shed,
A sable form, ill seen at most,
Went gliding up a stair, on high,
Passed through an open gallery,
And through a door-way there was lost,
That seemed to lead to antient rooms,
Such as where silence dwells, and glooms.
The knight, he felt a sudden chill,
Though nought he said of what had sped;
But the spicy draught he deeply quaff’d,
Whenever the page his cup did fill.
And from his spirits chaced the ill.