Apart, and nestling in the hay
Of a waste loft, Fitz-Eustace lay;
Scarce, by the pale moonlight, were seen 525
The foldings of his mantle green: 
Lightly he dreamt, as youth will dream,
Of sport by thicket, or by stream,
Of hawk or hound, of ring or glove,
Or, lighter yet, of lady’s love. 530
A cautious tread his slumber broke,
And, close beside him, when he woke,
In moonbeam half, and half in gloom,
Stood a tall form, with nodding plume;
But, ere his dagger Eustace drew, 535
His master Marmion’s voice he knew.

XXVIII.

—­’Fitz-Eustace! rise,—­I cannot rest;
Yon churl’s wild legend haunts my breast,
And graver thoughts have chafed my mood: 
The air must cool my feverish blood; 540
And fain would I ride forth, to see
The scene of elfin chivalry. 
Arise, and saddle me my steed;
And, gentle Eustace, take good heed
Thou dost not rouse these drowsy slaves; 545
I would not, that the prating knaves
Had cause for saying, o’er their ale,
That I could credit such a tale.’—­
Then softly down the steps they slid,
Eustace the stable door undid, 550
And, darkling, Marmion’s steed array’d,
While, whispering, thus the Baron said:—­

XXIX.

’Did’st never, good my youth, hear tell,
  That on the hour when I was born,
Saint George, who graced my sire’s chapelle, 555
Down from his steed of marble fell,
  A weary wight forlorn? 
The flattering chaplains all agree,
The champion left his steed to me. 
I would, the omen’s truth to show, 560
That I could meet this Elfin Foe! 
Blithe would I battle, for the right
To ask one question at the sprite:-
Vain thought! for elves, if elves there be,
An empty race, by fount or sea, 565
To dashing waters dance and sing,
Or round the green oak wheel their ring.’ 
Thus speaking, he his steed bestrode,
And from the hostel slowly rode.

XXX.

Fitz-Eustace follow’d him abroad, 570
And mark’d him pace the village road,
  And listen’d to his horse’s tramp,
    Till, by the lessening sound,
  He judged that of the Pictish camp
    Lord Marmion sought the round. 575
Wonder it seem’d, in the squire’s eyes,
That one, so wary held, and wise,—–­
Of whom ’twas said, he scarce received
For gospel, what the Church believed,—­
  Should, stirr’d by idle tale, 580
Ride forth in silence of the night,
As hoping half to meet a sprite,
  Array’d in plate and mail. 
For little did Fitz-Eustace know,
That passions, in contending flow, 585
  Unfix the strongest mind;
Wearied from doubt to doubt to flee,
We welcome fond credulity,
  Guide confident, though blind.