Chapter XXII

The page stept on with torch before,
Far as that stately chamber’s door.
“Page! lift that light—fain would I know,
Whither that second flight doth go?”
“It goes to a battlement up on high,
And to a turret perching by.”
“Doth none keep watch on that turret high?”
“None, but the raven with his cry!
Your rest, Sir knight, he will not break;
To traitors only doth he speak.
They say he scents the new spilt blood.”
Upon the stair the raven stood!
He turn’d his dark eye on the knight,
And, screaming, upward winged his flight.
The wondering page looked back with fright,
And met the stranger’s fiery glance;
Then, hardly daring to advance,
Lingered he at that chamber-door;
“On,” said the knight, “with torch before!”
Scarce was the page the threshhold o’er,
When check he made, and pale he turn’d;
Dim and more dim the torch-flame burn’d.
The knight look’d on, but nothing saw,
That might explain this sudden awe.