Down the sun dropt large and red on the towers of Linteged,-- _Toll slowly._ Lance and spear upon the height, bristling strange in fiery light, While the castle stood in shade. IV. There the castle stood up black with the red sun at its back-- _Toll slowly_-- Like a sullen smouldering pyre with a top that flickers fire When the wind is on its track. V. And five hundred archers tall did besiege the castle wall-- _Toll slowly._ And the castle, seethed in blood, fourteen days and nights had stood And to-night was near its fall. VI. Yet thereunto, blind to doom, three months since, a bride did come-- _Toll slowly._ One who proudly trod the floors and softly whispered in the doors, "May good angels bless our home." VII. Oh, a bride of queenly eyes, with a front of constancies: _Toll slowly._ Oh, a bride of cordial mouth where the untired smile of youth Did light outward its own sighs! VIII. 'T was a Duke's fair orphan-girl, and her uncle's ward--the Earl-- _Toll slowly._ Who betrothed her twelve years old, for the sake of dowry gold, To his son Lord Leigh the churl. IX. But what time she had made good all her years of womanhood-- _Toll slowly._ Unto both these lords of Leigh spake she out right sovranly, "My will runneth as my blood. X. "And while this same blood makes red this same right hand's veins," she said-- _Toll slowly_-- "'T is my will, as lady free, not to wed a lord of Leigh, But Sir Guy of Linteged." XI. The old Earl he smilèd smooth, then he sighed for wilful youth-- _Toll slowly._ "Good my niece, that hand withal looketh somewhat soft and small For so large a will, in sooth." XII. She too smiled by that same sign, but her smile was cold and fine-- _Toll slowly._ "Little hand clasps muckle gold, or it were not worth the hold Of thy son, good uncle mine!" XIII. Then the young lord jerked his breath, and sware thickly in his teeth-- _Toll slowly_-- "He would wed his own betrothed, an she loved him an she loathed, Let the life come or the death." XIV. Up she rose with scornful eyes, as her father's child might rise-- _Toll slowly._ "Thy hound's blood, my lord of Leigh, stains thy knightly heel," quoth she, "And he moans not where he lies: XV.