At length, though hid in clouds, the moon arose; 145 The downs were visible--and now revealed A structure stands, which two bare slopes enclose. It was a spot, where, ancient vows fulfilled, Kind pious hands did to the Virgin build A lonely Spital, the belated swain 150 From the night terrors of that waste to shield: But there no human being could remain, And now the walls are named the "Dead House" of the plain. XVIII Though he had little cause to love the abode Of man, or covet sight of mortal face, 155 Yet when faint beams of light that ruin showed, How glad he was at length to find some trace Of human shelter in that dreary place. Till to his flock the early shepherd goes, Here shall much-needed sleep his frame embrace. 160 In a dry nook where fern the floor bestrows He lays his stiffened limbs,--his eyes begin to close; XIX When hearing a deep sigh, that seemed to come From one who mourned in sleep, he raised his head, And saw a woman in the naked room 165 Outstretched, and turning on a restless bed: The moon a wan dead light around her shed. He waked her--spake in tone that would not fail, He hoped, to calm her mind; but ill he sped, For of that ruin she had heard a tale 170 Which now with freezing thoughts did all her powers assail; XX Had heard of one who, forced from storms to shroud, Felt the loose walls of this decayed Retreat Rock to incessant neighings shrill and loud, While his horse pawed the floor with furious heat; 175 Till on a stone, that sparkled to his feet, Struck, and still struck again, the troubled horse: The man half raised the stone with pain and sweat, Half raised, for well his arm might lose its force Disclosing the grim head of a late murdered corse. 180 XXI Such tale of this lone mansion she had learned, And, when that shape, with eyes in sleep half drowned, By the moon's sullen lamp she first discerned, Cold stony horror all her senses bound. Her he addressed in words of cheering sound; 185 Recovering heart, like answer did she make; And well it was that, of the corse there found, In converse that ensued she nothing spake; She knew not what dire pangs in him such tale could wake. XXII But soon his voice and words of kind intent 190 Banished that dismal thought; and now the wind In fainter howlings told its _rage_ was spent: Meanwhile discourse ensued of various kind, Which by degrees a confidence of mind And mutual interest failed not to create. 195 And, to a natural sympathy resigned, In that forsaken building where they sate The Woman thus retraced her own untoward fate. [6] XXIII