'Tis finished, and the dusk, that yet remains,
Is but the native horror of the wood.
But I must lose no time; the pass is free;
The unroosted fiends have quitted this abode.
On yon proud towers, before this day be done,
My glittering banners shall be waved against the setting sun.
[Exit Arthur.
Phil. Come on, my surly slave; come stalk along,
And stamp a madman's pace, and drag thy chain.
Grim. I'll champ and foam upon it, till the blue venom