To enter Corbus on this solemn night, Or linger in the woods encircling it, Was death to any man. Eviradnus Did not fear death. Opening the castle gate He strode into the chamber where Mahaud Would have to pass the night. Two long, dim lines Of armed and mounted warriors filled the hall, Each with his lance couched ready for the shock, And sternly silent. Empty panoplies They were, in which the lords of old Lusace Had lived and fought and died, since the red days When Attila, from whom their race was sprung, Swept over Europe. Now, on effigies Of the great war-horses they loved and rode, Their armoured image sat; and eyeless holes Gaped in their visors, black and terrible. Seizing the leader of this spectral host, Eviradnus dragged his clanging body down, And hid it; and then leaped upon the horse. And with closed visor, motionless mail and lance Clenched in his gauntlet, he appeared transformed Into an iron statue, like the rest, As through the open window came the sound Of lute-playing and laughter, and a song Sung by the troubadour, rang righ and clear: Come, and let us dream a dream! Mount with me, and ride away, By the winding moonlight stream, Through the shining gates of day! Come, the stars are bright above! All the world is in our scope. We have horses--joy and love! We have riches--youth and hope! Mount with me, and ride away, Through the greenness and the dew; Through the shining gates of day, To the land where dreams come true!