--'Let pass,' quoth Marmion; 'by my fay, This man shall guide me on my way, 455 Although the great arch-fiend and he Had sworn themselves of company. So please you, gentle youth, to call This Palmer to the Castle-hall.' The summon'd Palmer came in place; 460 His sable cowl o'erhung his face; In his black mantle was he clad, With Peter's keys, in cloth of red, On his broad shoulders wrought; The scallop shell his cap did deck; 465 The crucifix around his neck Was from Loretto brought; His sandals were with travel tore, Staff, budget, bottle, scrip, he wore; The faded palm-branch in his hand 470 Show'd pilgrim from the Holy Land. XXVIII. When as the Palmer came in hall, Nor lord, nor knight, was there more tall, Or had a statelier step withal, Or look'd more high and keen; 475 For no saluting did he wait, But strode across the hall of state, And fronted Marmion where he sate, As he his peer had been. But his gaunt frame was worn with toil; 480 His cheek was sunk, alas the while! And when he struggled at a smile, His eye look 'd haggard wild: Poor wretch! the mother that him bare, If she had been in presence there, 485 In his wan face, and sun-burn'd hair, She had not known her child. Danger, long travel, want, or woe, Soon change the form that best we know-- For deadly fear can time outgo, 490 And blanch at once the hair; Hard toil can roughen form and face, And want can quench the eye's bright grace, Nor does old age a wrinkle trace More deeply than despair. 495 Happy whom none of these befall, But this poor Palmer knew them all. XXIX. Lord Marmion then his boon did ask; The Palmer took on him the task, So he would march with morning tide, 500 To Scottish court to be his guide. 'But I have solemn vows to pay, And may not linger by the way, To fair St. Andrews bound, Within the ocean-cave to pray, 505 Where good Saint Rule his holy lay, From midnight to the dawn of day, Sung to the billows' sound; Thence to Saint Fillan's blessed well, Whose spring can frenzied dreams dispel, 510 And the crazed brain restore: Saint Mary grant, that cave or spring Could back to peace my bosom bring, Or bid it throb no more!' XXX.