in the Gothic manner, and supported by eight massy pillars, down whose sides the damp moisture ran in cold and heavy drops, the moon shining with great lustre through three iron-grated windows, which, although rusty with age, were strong enough to resist the efforts of Sir Gawen, who, after having in vain tried to force them, looked around for his sword, which during the fall had started from his grasp, and in searching the ground with his fingers, he laid hold of, and drew forth the fresh bones of an enormous skeleton, yet greasy and moist from the decaying fibres: he trembled with horror— a cold wind brushed violently along the surface of the vault, and a ponderous iron door, slowly grating on its hinges, opened at one corner, and disclosed to the wandering eye of Sir Gawen a broken staircase, down whose steps a blue and faint light flashed by fits, like the lightening of a summer’s eve. Appalled by these dreadful prodiges, Sir Gawen felt, in spite of all his resolution, a cold and death-like chill pervade his frame, and kneeling down, he prayed fervently to that Power, without whose mandate no being is let loose upon another, and feeling himself more calm and resolved, he again began to search for his sword, when a moon-beam falling on the blade, at once restored it to its owner.
Sir Gawen having thus resumed his wonted fortitude and resolution, held a parley with himself, and perceiving no other way
