Blood was on his golden scabbard, and the sable robe he wore.
“By this blade, most noble lady,
Have I done thy will aright!”
Then, upstarting from her languor,
Cried she, in returning anger:
“Where reposed the trait’rous knight?
Didst thou tear him from her clasping—strike him down before her sight?”
“Nay, not so: in bright Palermo,
Where the tourney’s torches shine—
In the gardens of the palace,