They would fly together: the baron's men Might follow; and if ... and he touched his sword-- _It_ should answer! But she, while she seemed to stay, With a hand on her bosom, her heart's quick breath, Replied to his heat: "They would take and slay Thee who art life of my life!--Not thus Will we fly!--There's another way for us; A way that is sure; an only way; I have thought on it this many a day."-- The words that she spake how well I remember! As well as the mood o' that day of December, That bullied and blustered and seemed in league, Like a spiteful shrew, with the wind and the snow, To drown the words of their sweet intrigue, With the boom of the boughs tossed to and fro, That the storm swept through with its wild-beast low. Her last words these, "By curfew sure, On Christmas eve, at the postern door." * * * * * And we were there; with a led horse too; Armed for a journey--I hardly knew Whither, but why, you well may guess. For often he whispered a certain name, The talisman dear of his happiness, That warmed his blood like a Yule-log's flame. While we waited there, till its owner came, We saw how the castle's baronial girth, Like a giant's, loosed for revelling more, Shone; and we heard the wassail and mirth Where the mistletoe hung in the hearth's red roar, And the holly brightened the weaponed wall Of carven oak in the banqueting hall. And the spits, I trow, by the scullions turned O'er the snoring logs, rich steamed and burned, Where the whole wild-boar and the deer were roasted, And the half of an ox and the roe-buck's haunches; While tuns of ale, that the cellars boasted, And casks of sack, were broached for paunches Of vassals who revelled in stable and hall. The song of the minstrel; the yeomen's quarrel O'er the dice and the drink; and the huntsman's bawl In the baying kennels, its hounds a-snarl O'er the bones of the feast; now loud, now low, We could hear where we crouched in the drifting snow.