A faith that, for the dead man’s sake
  And this poor slave who loved him well,
  Vengeance upon his head will fall,
  Some visitation worse than all
  Which ever till this night befel. 665

  Meanwhile the Ass to reach his home, [72]
  Is striving stoutly as he may;
  But, while he climbs the woody hill,
  The cry grows weak—­and weaker still;
  And now at last it dies away. 670

  So with his freight the Creature turns
  Into a gloomy grove of beech,
  Along the shade with footsteps [73] true
  Descending slowly, till the two
  The open moonlight reach. 675

  And there, along the [74] narrow dell,
  A fair smooth pathway you discern,
  A length of green and open road—­
  As if it from a fountain flowed—­
  Winding away between the fern. 680

  The rocks that tower on either side
  Build up a wild fantastic scene;
  Temples like those among the Hindoos,
  And mosques, and spires, and abbey-windows,
  And castles all with ivy green! 685

  And, while the Ass pursues his way,
  Along this solitary dell,
  As pensively his steps advance,
  The mosques and spires change countenance,
  And look at Peter Bell! 690

  That unintelligible cry
  Hath left him high in preparation,—­
  Convinced that he, or soon or late,
  This very night will meet his fate—­
  And so he sits in expectation! 695

  [75]

  The strenuous Animal hath clomb
  With the green path; and now he wends
  Where, shining like the smoothest sea,
  In undisturbed immensity
  A [76] level plain extends. 700

  But whence this faintly-rustling sound
  By which the journeying pair are chased? 
—­A withered leaf is close behind, [77]
  Light plaything for the sportive wind
  Upon that solitary waste. 705

  When Peter spied the moving thing,
  It only doubled his distress; [78]
  “Where there is not a bush or tree,
  The very leaves they follow me—­
  So huge hath been my wickedness!” 710

  To a close lane they now are come,
  Where, as before, the enduring Ass
  Moves on without a moment’s stop,
  Nor once turns round his head to crop
  A bramble-leaf or blade of grass. 715

  Between the hedges as they go,
  The white dust sleeps upon the lane;
  And Peter, ever and anon
  Back-looking, sees, upon a stone,
  Or in the dust, a crimson stain. 720

  A stain—­as of a drop of blood
  By moonlight made more faint and wan;
  Ha! why these sinkings of despair? [79]
  He knows not how the blood comes there—­
  And Peter is a wicked man. 725