But where was he? that meteor of a night,

Who menaced but to disappear with light.

Where was this Ezzelin? who came and went,

To leave no other trace of his intent.

He left the dome of Otho long ere morn,

In darkness, yet so well the path was worn

He could not miss it: near his dwelling lay;

But there he was not, and with coming day

Came fast inquiry, which unfolded nought, 750

Except the absence of the Chief it sought.

A chamber tenantless, a steed at rest,

His host alarmed, his murmuring squires distressed:

Their search extends along, around the path,

In dread to meet the marks of prowlers' wrath:

But none are there, and not a brake hath borne

Nor gout of blood, nor shred of mantle torn;

Nor fall nor struggle hath defaced the grass,

Which still retains a mark where Murder was;

Nor dabbling fingers left to tell the tale, 760

The bitter print of each convulsive nail,

When agoniséd hands that cease to guard,

Wound in that pang the smoothness of the sward.

Some such had been, if here a life was reft,

But these were not; and doubting Hope is left;

And strange Suspicion, whispering Lara's name,

Now daily mutters o'er his blackened fame;

Then sudden silent when his form appeared,

Awaits the absence of the thing it feared

Again its wonted wondering to renew, 770

And dye conjecture with a darker hue.