And here, 'tis said, to hide his shame, The thrice accursed Pilate came; And here the very rock is shown. Where, racked and riven with remorse, Mad with the memory of the Cross, He sprang and perished in the Rhone. 'Tis said that certain of his race Made this tall peak their dwelling place. And built them there this castle keep To mark the spot of Pilate's leap. {172} Full many the tale of terror told At eve, with changing cheek, By maiden fair and stripling bold, Of these dark keepers of the height And, most of all, of the Wizard Knight, The Knight of Pilate's Peak. His was a name of terror known And feared through all Provence; Men breathed it in an undertone. With quailing eye askance, Till the good Dauphin of Vienne, And Miolan's ancient Lord, One midnight stormed the robber den And gave them to the sword; All save the Wizard Knight, who rose In a flame-wreath from his dazzled foes; All save a child, with golden hair. Whom the Lord of Miolan deigned to spare In ruth to womanhood, And she, alas, is the maiden fair Who wept in the walnut wood. But who is he, with step of fate, Goes gloomily through the castle gate In me morning's virgin prime? Why scattereth he with frenzied hand The fierce flame of that burning brand, Chaunting an ancient rhyme? The eagle, scared from her blazing nest, Whirls with a scream round his sable crest. What muttereth he with demon smile. Shaking his mailed hand the while Toward the Chateau of La Sône, Where champing steed and bannered tent Gave token of goodly tournament, And the Golden Dolphin shone? "Woe to the last of the Dauphin's line, When the eagle shrieks and the red lights shine Bound the towers of Pilate's Peak! Burn, beacon, burn!"--and as he spoke From the ruined towers curled the pillared smoke, As the light flame leapt from the ancient oak And answered the eagle's shriek. Man and horse down the hillside sprang And a voice through the startled forest rang-- "I ride, I ride to win my bride. Ho, Eblis! to thy servants side; Thou hast sworn no foe Shall lay me low Till the dead in arms against me ride." {173} II. Deliciously, deliciously Cometh the dancing dawn, Christine, Christine comes with it, Leading in the morn. Beautiful pair! So cometh the fawn Before the deer. Christine is in her bower Beside the swift Isère Weaving a white flower With her dark brown hair. Never, O never, Wandering river. Though flowing for ever, E'er shalt thou mirror Maiden so fair!