So, purposing each moment to retire, She linger'd still. Meantime, across the moors, Had come young Porphyro, with heart on fire For Madeline. Beside the portal doors, Buttress'd from moonlight, stands he, and implores All saints to give him sight of Madeline, But for one moment in the tedious hours, That he might gaze and worship all unseen; 80 Perchance speak, kneel, touch, kiss--in sooth such things have been. X. He ventures in: let no buzz'd whisper tell: All eyes be muffled, or a hundred swords Will storm his heart, Love's fev'rous citadel: For him, those chambers held barbarian hordes, Hyena foemen, and hot-blooded lords, Whose very dogs would execrations howl Against his lineage: not one breast affords Him any mercy, in that mansion foul, Save one old beldame, weak in body and in soul. 90 XI. Ah, happy chance! the aged creature came, Shuffling along with ivory-headed wand, To where he stood, hid from the torch's flame, Behind a broad hall-pillar, far beyond The sound of merriment and chorus bland: He startled her; but soon she knew his face, And grasp'd his fingers in her palsied hand, Saying, "Mercy, Porphyro! hie thee from this place; They are all here to-night, the whole blood-thirsty race!" XII. "Get hence! get hence! there's dwarfish Hildebrand; 100 He had a fever late, and in the fit He cursed thee and thine, both house and land: Then there's that old Lord Maurice, not a whit More tame for his gray hairs--Alas me! flit! Flit like a ghost away."--"Ah, Gossip dear, We're safe enough; here in this arm-chair sit, And tell me how"--"Good Saints! not here, not here; Follow me, child, or else these stones will be thy bier." XIII. He follow'd through a lowly arched way, Brushing the cobwebs with his lofty plume, 110 And as she mutter'd "Well-a--well-a-day!" He found him in a little moonlight room, Pale, lattic'd, chill, and silent as a tomb. "Now tell me where is Madeline," said he, "O tell me, Angela, by the holy loom Which none but secret sisterhood may see, When they St. Agnes' wool are weaving piously." XIV. "St. Agnes! Ah! it is St. Agnes' Eve-- Yet men will murder upon holy days: Thou must hold water in a witch's sieve, 120 And be liege-lord of all the Elves and Fays, To venture so: it fills me with amaze To see thee, Porphyro!--St. Agnes' Eve! God's help! my lady fair the conjuror plays This very night: good angels her deceive! But let me laugh awhile, I've mickle time to grieve." XV.