Chapter XXVIII

The knight, he listened in silent dread,
Till now, the blood-hound’s voice was stilled;
But soon a low voice near him sped,
That every nerve with horror thrilled.
He looked the way that lone voice came,
And saw, by the lamp’s tall spiring flame,
A portraiture on the wall beneath,
Of noble dame, that seemed to breathe.
Robed in sable weeds was she:
The gleam fell on that lady’s brow;
There, written dimly, you might see,
The characters of hopeless woe.