XXI.

What may be done?-the night is gone

The Bruce's band moves swiftly on-
Eternal shame, if at the brunt

Lord Ronald grace not battle's front!—
"See yonder oak, within whose trunk
Decay a darken'd cell hath sunk-
Enter, and rest thee there a space,
Wrap in my plaid thy limbs, thy face.
I will not be, believe me, far;

But must not quit the ranks of war.
Well will I mark the bosky bourne,
And soon, to guard thee hence, return.-
Nay, weep not so, thou simple boy!
But sleep in peace, and wake in joy."-

In sylvan lodging close bestow'd,

He placed the page, and onward strode

With strength put forth, o'er moss and brook,

And soon the marching band o'ertook.

XXII.

Thus strangely left, long sobb'd and wept
The page, till, wearied out, he slept.-

A rough voice waked his dream" Nay, here,
Here by this thicket, pass'd the deer-
Beneath that oak old Ryno staid-

What have we here !-a Scottish plaid,
And in its folds a stripling laid ?—

Come forth! thy name and business tell!—
What, silent?-then I guess thee well,

The spy that sought old Cuthbert's cell,
Wafted from Arran yester morn—

Come, comrades, we will strait return.
Our Lord may choose the rack should teach
To this young lurcher use of speech.

Thy bow-string, till I bind him fast."-
"Nay, but he weeps and stands aghast ;
Unbound we'll lead him, fear it not;

'Tis a fair stripling, though a Scot."

B 2

The hunters to the castle sped,

And there the hapless captive led.

XXIII.

Stout Clifford in the castle-court

Prepared him for the morning sport;
And now with Lorn held deep discourse,
Now gave command for hound and horse.
War-steeds and palfreys paw'd the ground,
And many a deer-dog howl'd around.
To Amadine, Lorn's well-known word
Replying to that Southern Lord,

Mix'd with this clanging din, might seem
The phantasm of a fever'd dream.

The tone upon his ringing ears

Came like the sounds which fancy hears, When in rude waves or roaring winds Some words of woe the muser finds,

Until more loudly and more near,

Their speech arrests the page's ear.

XXIV.

"And was she thus," said Clifford, "lost? The priest will rue it to his cost!

What says the monk ?"—" The holy Sire
Owns, that, in masquer's quaint attire,
She sought his skiff, disguised, unknown
To all except to him alone.

But, says the priest, a bark from Lorn
Laid them aboard that very morn,
And pirates seized her for their prey.
He proffer'd ransom-gold to pay,
And they agreed-but, e'er told o'er,
The winds blow loud, the billows roar ;
They sever'd, and they met no more.
He deems-such tempest vex'd the coast-
Ship, crew, and fugitive, were lost.
-So let it be, with the disgrace

And scandal of her lofty race!

Thrice better she had ne'er been born,

Than brought her infamy on Lorn!"

XXV.

Lord Clifford now the captive spied ;

"Whom, Herbert, hast thou there?" he cried. "A spy was seized within the Chase,

An hollow oak his lurking place."

"What tidings can the youth afford?"

"He plays the mute."" Then noose a cordUnless brave Lorn reverse the doom

For his plaid's sake.' "Clan-Colla's loom,"

Said Lorn, whose careless glances trace
Rather the vesture than the face,

"Clan-Colla's dames such tartans twine;

Wearer nor plaid claims care of mine.
Give him, if my advice you crave,

His own scathed oak; and let him wave

In air, unless, by terror wrung,

A frank confession find his tongue