She turned, and vanished ere he could reply,

But his glance followed far with eager eye;

And gathering, as he could, the links that bound

His form, to curl their length, and curb their sound,

Since bar and bolt no more his steps preclude,

He, fast as fettered limbs allow, pursued.

'Twas dark and winding, and he knew not where 1560

That passage led; nor lamp nor guard was there:

He sees a dusky glimmering—shall he seek

Or shun that ray so indistinct and weak?

Chance guides his steps—a freshness seems to bear

Full on his brow as if from morning air;

He reached an open gallery—on his eye

Gleamed the last star of night, the clearing sky:

Yet scarcely heeded these—another light

From a lone chamber struck upon his sight.

Towards it he moved; a scarcely closing door 1570

Revealed the ray within, but nothing more.

With hasty step a figure outward passed,

Then paused, and turned—and paused—'tis She at last!

No poniard in that hand, nor sign of ill—

"Thanks to that softening heart—she could not kill!"

Again he looked, the wildness of her eye

Starts from the day abrupt and fearfully.

She stopped—threw back her dark far-floating hair,

That nearly veiled her face and bosom fair,

As if she late had bent her leaning head 1580

Above some object of her doubt or dread.

They meet—upon her brow—unknown—forgot—

Her hurrying hand had left—'twas but a spot—

Its hue was all he saw, and scarce withstood—

Oh! slight but certain pledge of crime—'tis Blood!