Strode Gilbert fast, but stealthily, away;
Nor paused he till again the dewy sod
With lighter heart and firmer step he trod.
VII.
Like warriors of the knightly times of old,
All sheathed in armor rough with fretted gold,
So seem the trees round Elva’s mansion white,
So glance their wet leaves in the silver light.
Still Gilbert watches—still his eyelids keep
At bay the approaches of deceitful sleep;