And grief is swimming in his eyes.
All dripping from the recent flood,
Panting and travel-soil’d he stood,
The fatal sign of fire and sword
Held forth, and spoke the appointed word:
“The muster-place is Lanrick mead—
Speed forth the signal! Norman, speed!”
And must he change so soon the hand,
Just link’d to his by holy band,
For the fell Cross of blood and brand?