XII

Get hence! get hence! there 's dwarfish Hildebrand;

      He had a fever late, and in the fit

      He cursed thee and thine, both house and land:

      Then there 's that old Lord Maurice, not a whit

      More tame for his gray hairs—Alas me! flit!

      Flit like a ghost away.'—'Ah, Gossip dear,

      We're safe enough; here in this arm-chair sit,

      And tell me how'—'Good Saints! not here, not here;

Follow me, child, or else these stones will be thy bier.'