LXXXVIII
“Now, I wis,” said the wight, “ ’tis wildsome here, An evil orat’ry, with herbs grown over! Well beseems it that sire in his suit of green Here to deal his devotions in the devil’s wise. I feel ’tis the fiend, in my five wits, That has stablisht this tryst, to destroy me herein; ’Tis a chapel unchancy, (ill-cheer it betide!) The cursedest kirk I cáme ever into!” With high helm on his head and lance in his hand He roams up anon to that rough rocky dwelling, When he hears, up the hill, in a hígh cràg On a bank o’er the brook, a boisteous noise; How it clatter’d in the cliff as though it should cleave it, Like one on a grindlestone grinding a scythe! How it hiss’d and whirr’d like water at a mill! How it rush’d and rung! ’twas ruth to hear it! “By God,” said the gallant, “this gear, as I trow, As a greeting is meant for the good Sir Gawain by way. If God so work, alas! It daunts me not nor may. Though out of life I pass, No noise shall me affray.”