XIII

He follow'd through a lowly arched way,

      Brushing the cobwebs with his lofty plume;

      And as she mutter'd 'Well-a—well-a-day!'

      He found him in a little moonlight room,

      Pale, latticed, chill, and silent as a tomb.

      'Now tell me where is Madeline,' said he,

      'O tell me, Angela, by the holy loom

      Which none but secret sisterhood may see,

When they St. Agnes' wool are weaving piously.'