Of death, whose ominous presence over
The snow-swept battlements seemed to hover.
Said my lord, Sir Hugh,—to himself he spoke,—
"She feels for the spring in the sliding panel
'Neath the arras, hid in the carven oak.
It opens. The stair, like a well's dark channel,
Yawns, and the draught makes her taper slope.
Wrapped deep in her mantle of fur, she puts
One foot on the stair: now a listening pause
As nearer and nearer the mad search draws