In the baying kennels, its hounds a-snarl
O'er the bones of the feast; now loud, now low,
We could hear where we crouched in the drifting snow.
Was she long? did she come?... By the postern we
Like shadows waited. My lord, Sir Hugh,
Spoke, pointing a tower: "That casement, see?
When a stealthy light in its slit burns blue
And signals thrice slowly, thus—'tis she."
And close to his breast his gaberdine drew,
For the wind it whipped and the snow beat through.