'Ere twelve moons shall pass away,
Thou wilt he beneath our sway.
Drear the doom, and dark the fate
Of him who rashly dares our hate!

Deceive me once, I tell thee never
Shall thy soul and body sever!
Under the greenwood wilt thou lie,
Nor shall thou there unheeded die.
Mortal, thou my vengeance brave,
Thou had'st better seen thy grave.
Drear the doom, and dark the fate
Of him who rashly dares our hate!

Meanwhile the Baron had sunk into a state of insensibility. When he
awoke from his trance it was broad daylight, and the birds were singing
merrily around the ruin.

After this adventure, the Baron resumed many of his old habits; and
sought by deeper dissipation to dispel the visions of the past. His son
was now grown up a sickly youth, and his father's inquietude about him
was so great that he would not suffer him for a moment to be out of the
sight of his attendants.

The year rolled on without any harm befalling the Baron, and his
spirits lightened as the time advanced. He had almost forgotten the
circumstance, when on the day preceding that of the anniversary of the
adventure just related, a grand hunting party was proposed, it being the
birth-day of his son. We now return to the situation in which we left
the Baron at the beginning of this legend.