On the white steed, and with the castled helm,
And the gold-broider’d mantle, which doth float
E’en like a sunny cloud above the fight;
And the pale cross, which from his breastplate gleams
With star-like radiance?
Gon. (eagerly.) Didst thou say the cross?
Her. On his mail’d bosom shines a broad white cross,
And his long plumage through the dark’ning air
Streams like a snow-wreath.
Gon. That should be—