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And made me credit aught.'—He staid,
And seem'd to wish his words unsaid:
But, by that strong emotion press'd,
Which prompts us to unload our breast,
380 Even when discovery's pain,
To Lindesay did at length unfold
The tale his village host had told,
 At Gifford, to his train.
Nought of the Palmer says he there,
385And nought of Constance, or of Clare;
The thoughts, which broke his sleep, he seems
To mention but as feverish dreams.

XIX.
'In vain,' said he, 'to rest I spread
My burning limbs, and couch'd my head:
390 Fantastic thoughts return'd;
And, by their wild dominion led,
 My heart within me burn'd.
So sore was the delirious goad,
I took my steed, and forth I rode,
395And, as the moon shone bright and cold,
Soon reach'd the camp upon the wold.
The southern entrance I pass'd through,
And halted, and my bugle blew.
Methought an answer met my ear,—
400Yet was the blast so low and drear,
So hollow, and so faintly blown,
It might be echo of my own.

XX.
'Thus judging, for a little space
I listen'd, ere I left the place;
405 But scarce could trust my eyes,
Nor yet can think they serve me true,
When sudden in the ring I view,
In form distinct of shape and hue,
 A mounted champion rise.—