VI.

But when he came, though pale and wan,
He looked so great and high,
So noble was his manly front,
So calm his steadfast eye;--
The rabble rout forebore to shout,
And each man held his breath,
For well they knew the hero's soul
Was face to face with death.
And then a mournful shudder
Through all the people crept,
And some that came to scoff at him,
Now turn'd aside and wept.


VII.

But onwards--always onwards,
In silence and in gloom,
The dreary pageant laboured,
Till it reach'd the house of doom:
Then first a woman's voice was heard
In jeer and laughter loud,
And an angry cry and a hiss arose
From the heart of the tossing crowd:
Then, as the Græme looked upwards,
He met the ugly smile
Of him who sold his King for gold--
The master-fiend Argyle!