He follow'd through a lowly arched way,
Brushing the cobwebs with his lofty plume; 110
And as she mutter'd "Well-a--well-a-day!"
He found him in a little moonlight room,
Pale, latticed, chill, and silent as a tomb.
"Now tell me where is Madeline," said he,
"O tell me, Angela, by the holy loom[155] 115
Which none but secret sisterhood may see,
When they St. Agnes' wool are weaving piously."