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Her. Not yet.

Rai. Not yet, nor ever! Let me die In a lost battle first!

Her. Hath he let go Name—kindred—honour—for an infidel, And will he grasp his faith?

Rai. (after a gloomy pause.) That which bears poison—should it not be crush’d? What though the weed look lovely? [Suddenly addressing. You have seen My native halls, Du Mornay, far away In Languedoc?

Du Mor. I was your father's friend— I knew them well.

Rai. (thoughtfully) The weight of gloom that hangs— The very banners seem to droop with it— O'er some of those old rooms! Were we there now, With a dull wind heaving the pale tapestries, Why, I could tell you—— [Coming closer to. There's a dark-red spot Grain'd in the floor of one—you know the tale?

Du Mor. I may have heard it by the winter fires, —Now 'tis of things gone by.

Rai. (turning from him displeased.) Such legends give Some minds a deeper tone. (To ) If you had heard That tale i' the shadowy tower——

Her. Nay, tell it now!

Rai. They say the place is haunted—moaning sounds Come thence at midnight—sounds of woman's voice.

Her. And you believe——

Rai. I but believe the deed Done there of old. I had an ancestor— Bertrand, the lion-chief—whose son went forth (A younger son—I am not of his line) To the wars of Palestine. He fought there well— Ay, all his race were brave; but he return'd, And with a Paynim bride.

Her. The recreant!—say, How bore your ancestor?

Rai. Well may you think It chafed him—but he bore it—for the love Of that fair son, the child of his old age. He pined in heart, yet gave the infidel A place in his own halls.

Her. But did this last?

Rai. How should it last? Again the trumpet blew, And men were summon'd from their homes to guard The city of the Cross. But he seem'd cold— That youth! He shunn'd his father's eye, and took No armour from the walls.