Of the thwarted castle. No smallest hope
That they find her now that the panel shuts!
If the wind, that howls like a tortured thing,
Would throttle itself with its cries, then I
Might hear how her hurrying footsteps ring
Down the secret ... there! 'tis her fingers try
The postern's bolts that the rust makes cling."—
But 'twas only some whim of the wind that shook
A clanging ring on a creaking hook
In the buttress or wall. And we waited, numb