At last on the frosty silence
There rang out the midnight chime;
And the hills gave back in echoes
The knell of the dying time.
She held her breath as she counted
The beats of the chapel bell;
At every stroke of the hammer
A sage-leaf fluttered and fell,
Slowly fluttered and fell.
Her heart stood still a moment,
As the last leaf touched the ground;
And her hand went swift to her maiden breast,
For she heard a far-off sound;
'Twas the sound of a horseman spurring
His steed through the woodland glade;
And ever the sound drew nearer,
And the footfalls echoed clearer,
Till before her bower they stayed.
She strained her eyes to discover,
By the light of a ghostly moon,
Who was the knight had heard and obeyed
The hest of the mystic rune.
But naught could she see from her casement,
Save a man on a coal-black steed;
For his mantle was muffled about him,
His blazon she could not read.
She crossed herself and she whispered--
Her voice was faint but clear--
"Oh! Who art thou that darest ride,
Through the aspen glade, by the river's side,
My chamber window near?
"Say, art thou the lord of Bainbridge,
Or Gervase of Bolton Hall,
That comest so late on St Agnes Eve
Within my manor wall?"
"I am not the lord of Bainbridge,
Nor Gervase of Bolton Hall,
But I marked the light in thy casement,
And I saw the sage-leaves fall,
Flutter awhile and fall.
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