A quick step sounded on the gravel-walk, And then came Eustace, humming a sea-song, Of how the Grace of Devon, with ten guns, And Master Raleigh on the quarter-deck, Bore down and tackled the great galleon, Madre de Dios, raked her fore and aft, And took her bullion,--singing, light at heart, His first love's first kiss warm upon his lip. Straight onward came young Eustace to his death! For hidden behind the arras near the stair Stood Regnald, like the Demon in the play, Grasping his rapier part-way down the blade To strike the foul blow with its heavy hilt. Straight on came Eustace,--blithely ran the song, "_Old England's darlings are her hearts of oak._" The lights were out, and not a soul astir, Or else the dead man's scabbard, as it clashed Against the marble pavement when he fell, Had brought a witness. Not a breath or sound, Only the sad wind wailing in the tower, Only the mastiff growling in his sleep, Outside the gate, and pawing at his dream. Now in a wing of that old gallery, Hung with the relics of forgotten feuds, A certain door, which none but Regnald knew, Was fashioned like the panels of the wall, And so concealed by carven grapes and flowers A man could search for it a dozen years And swear it was not, though his touch had been Upon the very panel where it was. The secret spring that opened it unclosed An inner door of iron-studded oak, Guarding a narrow chamber, where, perchance, Some bygone lord of Garnaut Hall had hid His threatened treasure, or, most like, bestowed Some too adventurous antagonist. Sealed in the compass of that stifling room, A man might live, at best, but half an hour. Hither did Regnald bear his brother's corse And set it down. Perhaps he paused to gaze A moment on the quiet moon-lit face, The face yet beautiful with new-told love! Perhaps his heart misgave him,--or, perhaps---- Now, whether 't was some dark avenging Hand, Or whether 't was some fatal freak of wind, We may not know, but suddenly the door Without slammed to, and there was Regnald shut Beyond escape, for on the inner side Was neither spring nor bolt to set him free! Mother of Mercy! what were a whole life Of pain and penury and conscience-smart To that half-hour of Regnald's with his Dead?