Short halt did Deloraine make there;
  Little reck’d he of the scene so fair
  With dagger’s hilt, on the wicket strong,
  He struck full loud, and struck full long. 
  The porter hurried to the gate—­
  “Who knocks so loud, and knocks so late?”
  “From Branksome I,” the warrior cried;
  And straight the wicket open’d wide
  For Branksome’s Chiefs had in battle stood,
  To fence the rights of fair Melrose;
  And lands and livings, many a rood,
  Had gifted the Shrine for their souls’ repose.

* * * * *

Bold Deloraine his errand said;
The porter bent his humble head;
With torch in hand, and feet unshod. 
And noiseless step, the path he trod. 
The arched cloister, far and wide,
Rang to the warrior’s clanking stride,
Till, stooping low his lofty crest,
He enter’d the cell of the ancient priest,
And lifted his barred aventayle,
To hail the Monk of St. Mary’s aisle.

* * * * *

“The Ladye of Branksome greets thee by me,
Says, that the fated hour is come,
And that to-night I shall watch with thee,
To win the treasure of the tomb.” 
From sackcloth couch the Monk arose,
With toil his stiffen’d limbs he rear’d;
A hundred years had flung their snows
On his thin locks and floating beard.

  And strangely on the Knight look’d he,
    And his blue eyes gleam’d wild and wide;
  “And, darest thou, Warrior! seek to see
    What heaven and hell alike would hide? 
  My breast, in belt of iron pent,
    With shirt of hair and scourge of thorn;
  For threescore years, in penance spent. 
    My knees those flinty stones have worn;
  Yet all too little to atone
  For knowing what should ne’er be known. 
    Would’st thou thy every future year
     In ceaseless prayer and penance drie,
  Yet wait thy latter end with fear
  Then, daring Warrior, follow me!”

* * * * *

“Penance, father, will I none;
Prayer know I hardly one;
For mass or prayer can I rarely tarry,
Save to patter an Ave Mary,
When I ride on a Border foray. 
Other prayer can I none;
So speed me my errand, and let me be gone.”

* * * * *

Again on the Knight look’d the Churchman old,
And again he sighed heavily;
For he had himself been a warrior bold. 
And fought in Spain and Italy. 
And he thought on the days that were long since by,
When his limbs were strong, and his courage was high—­
Now, slow and faint, he led the way,
Where, cloister’d round, the garden lay;
The pillar’d arches were over their head,
And beneath their feet were the bones of the dead.

* * * * *

The moon on the east oriel shone
Through slender shafts of shapely stone,