More deep than tongue can tell;
Therein his guardian angel breathed
A sad and last farewell.
“The sweat stood cold on the Baron’s brow,
His heart it trembled sore;
But he clenched his teeth with a muttered curse,
And he reared his blade once more.
“The third stroke fell—o’er the haunted dell
There sank a chillness dread;
And a creeping horror o’er him stole,