"Not so," I said, "rather would I depart Now while thou speakest, never has my heart Been set on anything within this land." Then said the Swabian, "Let us now take hand And swear to follow evermore this quest Till death or life have set our hearts at rest." So with joined hands we swore, and Nicholas said, "To-night, fair friends, be ye apparelled To leave this land, bring all the arms ye can And such men as ye trust, my own good man Guards the small postern looking towards St. Bride, And good it were ye should not be espied, Since mayhap freely ye should not go hence, Thou Rolf in special, for this pestilence Makes all men hard and cruel, nor are they Willing that folk should 'scape if they must stay: Be wise; I bid you for a while farewell, Leave ye this stronghold when St. Peter's bell Strikes midnight, all will surely then be still, And I will bide you at King Tryggve's hill Outside the city gates." Each went his way Therewith, and I the remnant of that day Gained for the quest three men that I deemed true, And did such other things as I must do, And still was ever listening for the chime Half maddened by the lazy lapse of time, Yea, scarce I thought indeed that I should live Till the great tower the joyful sound should give That set us free: and so the hours went past, Till startled by the echoing clang at last That told of midnight, armed from head to heel Down to the open postern did I steal, Bearing small wealth--this sword that yet hangs here Worn thin and narrow with so many a year, My father's axe that from Byzantium, With some few gems my pouch yet held, had come, Nought else that shone with silver or with gold. But by the postern gate could I behold Laurence the priest all armed as if for war, From off the town-wall, having some small store Of arms and furs and raiment: then once more I turned, and saw the autumn moonlight fall Upon the new-built bastions of the wall, Strange with black shadow and grey flood of light, And further off I saw the lead shine bright On tower and turret-roof against the sky, And looking down I saw the old town lie Black in the shade of the o'er-hanging hill, Stricken with death, and dreary, but all still Until it reached the water of the bay, That in the dead night smote against the quay Not all unheard, though there was little wind. But as I turned to leave the place behind, The wind's light sound, the slowly falling swell, Were hushed at once by that shrill-tinkling bell, That in that stillness jarring on mine ears, With sudden jangle checked the rising tears, And now the freshness of the open sea Seemed ease and joy and very life to me. So greeting my new mates with little sound, We made good haste to reach King Tryggve's mound, And there the Breton Nicholas beheld, Who by the hand fair Kirstin Erling held,