‘Sir Gervase rode forth far in the north To Whitby’s holy see; In her bower alone his lady made moan, A fairer could not be. ‘His false brother came to the weeping dame: “Oh, I love you dearer than life.” “Hence! would you win to shame and sin Thy brother’s wedded wife?” ‘“He is far away, thou sweet ladie, And none may hear or see; So, lady bright, this very night, Oh, open your door to me. ‘“Sir Gervase rides forth far in the north, ’Tis long ere he comes back, And thine eyes shine bright like stars by night, From thy hair of raven black.” ‘“The fire shall burn at the door stone Ere I open my door to thee, And thy suit of hell to Sir Gervase I’ll tell, And a traitor’s death thou wilt die.” ‘“Then fare ye well, Dame Isabel, Thou lady of mickle pride; Thou shalt rue the day thou saidst me nay, When back to thee I ride.” ‘The day declined, the rising wind Sung shrill on Whitby sands; With ear down laid, and ready blade, Behind a rock he stands. ‘Sir Gervase rode on in thought alone, Leaving his men behind; The blow was sure, the flight secure, But a voice was in the wind: ‘“False brother, spur thy flying steed, Thou canst not fly so fast; But on this stone where now I bleed Thyself shall breathe thy last.” ‘That stone was then on Whitby’s shore, And now behold it here; And ever that blood is in my eye, And ever that voice in mine ear!’ ‘Now, thou palmer gray, now turn thee, I pray, And let me look in thine eye. Alas! it burns bright with a fearful light— Like guilt about to die. ‘That stone is old, and o’er it has rolled The tempest of many years; But fiercer rage than of tempest or age In thy furrowed face appears.’ ‘Oh, speak not thus, thou holy man, But bend and pray by me, And give me your aid in this hour of need, Till I my penance drie. ‘With book and beads, with ave and creed, Oh, help me while you may; When the bell tolls one, oh, leave me alone, For with me you may not stay.’ Sore prayed the friar by the gray palmer, As both knelt o’er the stone; And redder grew the blood-red hue, And they heard a fearful groan. ‘Friar, leave me now, on my trembling brow The drops of sweat run down; And alone with his sprite I must deal this night, My deadly guilt to atone.’ By the morning light the good friar came By the sinner’s side to pray; But his spirit had flown, and, stretched on the stone, A corse the palmer lay. And still from that stone at the hour of one— Go visit it who dare— The blood runs red, and a shriek of dread Pierces the midnight air. Mr. Timbs’ prose variant of the story, briefly told, is as follows: