For many a day had passed away since he a prize had won,
And no hand had touched his bell save that of poursuivant or dun.
“Now haste ye,” he cried, “throw open the gate,
And let the drawbridge fall;”
Then three little pages, with hair combed straight,
Who ever upon Sir Rupert wait,
Ran off to the warden tall.
The drawbridge falls, and the company cross,
In number say fifty, i. e., man and horse.
First comes a gay herald, all silver and blue,