The day in Marmion’s journey wore; Yet, ere his passion’s gust was o’er, They crossed the heights of Stanrig Moor. His troop more closely there he scanned, And missed the Palmer from the band. “Palmer or not,” young Blount did say, “He parted at the peep of day; Good sooth it was in strange array.” “In what array?” said Marmion, quick. “My lord, I ill can spell the trick; But all night long, with clink and bang, Close to my couch did hammers clang; At dawn the falling drawbridge rang, And from a loophole while I peep, Old Bell-the-Cat came from the keep, Wrapped in a gown of sables fair, As fearful of the morning air; Beneath, when that was blown aside, A rusty shirt of mail I spied, By Archibald won in bloody work Against the Saracen and Turk: Last night it hung not in the hall; I thought some marvel would befall. And next I saw them saddled lead Old Cheviot forth, the earl’s best steed; A matchless horse, though something old, Prompt in his paces, cool, and bold. I heard the sheriff Sholto say, The earl did much the master pray To use him on the battle-day; But he preferred”—“Nay, Henry, cease Thou sworn horse-courser, hold thy peace. Eustace, thou bear’st a brain—I pray What did Blount see at break of day?” XVII. “In brief, my lord, we both descried (For then I stood by Henry’s side) The Palmer mount, and outwards ride, Upon the earl’s own favourite steed: All sheathed he was in armour bright, And much resembled that same knight, Subdued by you in Cotswold fight: Lord Angus wished him speed.” The instant that Fitz-Eustace spoke, A sudden light on Marmion broke: “Ah! dastard fool, to reason lost!” He muttered; “’Twas nor fay nor ghost I met upon the moonlight wold, But living man of earthly mould. O dotage blind and gross! Had I but fought as wont, one thrust Had laid De Wilton in the dust, My path no more to cross. How stand we now?—he told his tale To Douglas; and with some avail; ’Twas therefore gloomed his ruggéd brow. Will Surrey dare to entertain, ’Gainst Marmion, charge disproved and vain? Small risk of that, I trow. Yet Clare’s sharp questions must I shun; Must separate Constance from the nun— Oh, what a tangled web we weave, When first we practise to deceive! A Palmer too!—no wonder why I felt rebuked beneath his eye: I might have known there was but one Whose look could quell Lord Marmion.” XVIII.