The wearied knight a gesture made, And looked his thanks, but nothing said; Save that, for rest alone he prayed. He sighed, as through that guarded arch, And vaulted gloom, he held his march; And there, before his doubting sight, Glided again a pale sad light, Full often he had seen with fear, Yet more he felt to meet it here. Then came they to an iron door, And the knight beheld that flame no more. It opened to a second hall, Where warriors frowned upon the wall; And ladies smiled in portraiture, With downcast eye and look demure. An umbered flash the red torch threw, Athwart each warrior’s steadfast brow; And hardly might the gleam declare A baron grim from lady fair. XVI. There is no need that I should tell, What hasty fare the stranger took; Nor how the squire, with silent look, Watched, wondering, what had him befell; So strangely gleamed his hollow eyes, From forth the lifted beaver’s shade So wan his lips, like one that dies, So few the words and thanks he paid! XVII. Though round the hall his looks would steal, Not well did torch or lamp reveal The portraiture of warriors grim, Or noble dames hung there so dim; Their frowns and smiles were lost to him. But once, when that he turned his head Where the fix’d torch a gleaming shed, A sable form, ill seen at most, Went gliding up a stair, on high, Passed through an open gallery, And through a door-way there was lost, That seemed to lead to antient rooms, Such as where silence dwells, and glooms. The knight, he felt a sudden chill, Though nought he said of what had sped; But the spicy draught he deeply quaff’d, Whenever the page his cup did fill. And from his spirits chaced the ill. XVIII.