Chapter XXXI

Nor saw he in the court below,
By the torches’ umbered glow,
Borne upon his bleeding bier,
With wounds unclosed and open eyes,
A warrior stretched in death draw near;
Nor heard the loud and louder cries,
This piteous sight of horror drew
From every friend and vassal true.
But he knew that voice at his chamber-door,
And straight the witch-veil of glamour
Falls, and his wonder-trance is o’er.
He hears his summons in that sound;
It is the bark of the true blood-hound.
True to his murdered lord is he;
He has traced the steps he could not see—
Traced them o’er darkened miles and miles,
O’er glen and mountain, wood and moor,
Through all their swift and winding wiles,
Till he stopped before his master’s door,
And bayed the murderer in his bower.