Day was dying, St. George’s banner, broad and gay, hung in the evening breeze that scarce had power to wave it o’er the keep.  Warriors on the turrets were moving across the sky like giants, their armor flashing back the gleam of the setting sun, when a horseman dashed forward, spurred on his proud steed, and blew his bugle before the dark archway of the castle.  The warder, knowing well the horn he heard, hastened from the wall and warned the captain of the guard.  At once was given the command, “Make the entrance free!  Let every minstrel, every herald, every squire, prepare to receive Lord Marmion, who waits below!” The iron-studded gate was unbarred, the portcullis raised, the drawbridge dropped, and proudly across it, stepped a red roan charger, bearing the noble guest.

Lord Marmion was a stalwart knight, whose visage told of many a battle.  The scar on his brown cheek spoke of Bosworth Field, and the fire that burned in his eye showed a spirit still proud.  The lines of care on his brow, and the threads of silver in his black curling hair, spoke less of age than of toil.  The square-turned joints, the evident strength of body and limb, bespoke not a carpet-knight, but a grim champion.  From head to foot, he was clad in mail of Milan steel.  His helmet of embossed gold hung at the saddle-bow.  A falcon hovered in the crest, and soared on the azure field of the noble lord’s shield, above the motto, “Who checks at me, to death is dight!”

The horse was as richly clad as its rider.  The reins were embroidered in blue, and ribbons of the same color decked the arched neck and mane.  The housings were of blue trapped with gold.

Behind the leader, rode gallant squires of noble name.  Though still a squire, each had well earned knighthood.  Each could tame a war horse, draw a bow, wield a sword, dance in the hall, carve at the board, frame love ditties, and sing them to fair ladies.

Next in the train, came four men-at-arms:  two carried halbert, bill, axe, and lance; a third led the sumpter mules and the ambling palfrey, which served to bear Lord Marmion when he wished to relieve his battle steed; the most trusty of the four held on high the pennon, furled in its glossy blue streamers.  Last were twenty yeomen, two and two, in blue jerkins, black hose, and wearing falcons embroidered on each breast.  At their belts hung quivers, and in their hands were boar-spears, tough and strong.  They knew the art of hunting by lake or in wood, could bend a six-foot bow, or, at the behest of their lord, send far the cloth-yard spear.

To welcome Marmion, the Flower of English Chivalry, the soldiers of the guard of Norham stood in the castle yard, with reversed pike and spear.  Minstrels and trumpeters were there, the welcome was prepared, and as the train entered, a clang sounded through turret and tower, such as the old castle had seldom heard.

Trumpets flourished, the martial airs rang out as Marmion crossed the court, scattering angels among the ranks.  Loud rose the cry: