Was she long? did she come?... By the postern we Like shadows waited. My lord, Sir Hugh, Spoke, pointing a tower: "That casement, see? When a stealthy light in its slit burns blue And signals thrice slowly, thus--'tis she." And close to his breast his gaberdine drew, For the wind it whipped and the snow beat through. Did she come?--We had waited an hour or twain, When the taper flashed in the central pane, And flourished three times and vanished so. And under the arch of the postern's portal, Crouched down by the horses we stood in the snow, Stiff with the cold.--Ah, me! immortal Minutes we waited, breath-bated, and listened Shivering there in the hurl of the gale: The parapets whistled, the angles glistened, And the night around seemed one black wail Of death, whose ominous presence over The snow-swept battlements seemed to hover. Said my lord, Sir Hugh,--to himself he spoke,-- "She feels for the spring in the sliding panel 'Neath the arras, hid in the carven oak. It opens. The stair, like a well's dark channel, Yawns, and the draught makes her taper slope. Wrapped deep in her mantle of fur, she puts One foot on the stair: now a listening pause As nearer and nearer the mad search draws Of the thwarted castle. No smallest hope That they find her now that the panel shuts! If the wind, that howls like a tortured thing, Would throttle itself with its cries, then I Might hear how her hurrying footsteps ring Down the secret ... there! 'tis her fingers try The postern's bolts that the rust makes cling."-- But 'twas only some whim of the wind that shook A clanging ring on a creaking hook In the buttress or wall. And we waited, numb With the cold, till dawn--but she did not come. I must tell you why and have done: 'Tis said, On the eve of the marriage she fled the side Of the guests and the bridegroom there: she fled With a mischievous laugh,--"I'll hide! I'll hide! A kiss for the one who shall find!"--and led A long search after her; but defied All search for--a score and ten long years. Well, the laughter of Yule was turned to tears For them as for us. We saw the glare Of torches that hurried from chamber to stair; And we heard the castle reëcho her name, But she laughed no answer and never came, And that was the last of Clara of Clare.