Glances the knife and shines the ready brand,
Nor sign nor motion show they of surprise,
But mutely turn on Gilbert their bright eyes.
He stands their centre; round his form they wheel,
A dusky phalanx, lit by gleams of steel,
Serene, but pale as sculptured marble stone
His cheeks—while in his eye there coldly shone
A wintry starlight—well ’tis understood,
That freezing glance prophetic speaks of blood.
Proud he looked round, yet struggling with his pride