Part 12

She crossed him thrice, that lady bold; He rose beneath her hand The fairest knight on Scottish mould, Her brother, Ethert Brand!

Merry it is in good greenwood, When the mavis and merle are singing, But merrier were they in Dunfermline gray, When all the bells were ringing.

XVI.

Just as the minstrel sounds were stayed, A stranger climbed the steepy glade; His martial step, his stately mien, His hunting-suit of Lincoln green, His eagle glance, remembrance claims-- 'Tis Snowdoun's Knight, 'tis James Fitz-James. Ellen beheld as in a dream, Then, starting, scarce suppressed a scream: 'O stranger! in such hour of fear What evil hap has brought thee here?' 'An evil hap how can it be That bids me look again on thee? By promise bound, my former guide Met me betimes this morning-tide, And marshalled over bank and bourne The happy path of my return.' 'The happy path!--what! said he naught Of war, of battle to be fought, Of guarded pass?' 'No, by my faith! Nor saw I aught could augur scathe.' 'O haste thee, Allan, to the kern: Yonder his tartars I discern; Learn thou his purpose, and conjure That he will guide the stranger sure!-- What prompted thee, unhappy man? The meanest serf in Roderick's clan Had not been bribed, by love or fear, Unknown to him to guide thee here.'

XVII.

'Sweet Ellen, dear my life must be, Since it is worthy care from thee; Yet life I hold but idle breath When love or honor's weighed with death. Then let me profit by my chance, And speak my purpose bold at once. I come to bear thee from a wild Where ne'er before such blossom smiled, By this soft hand to lead thee far From frantic scenes of feud and war. Near Bochastle my horses wait; They bear us soon to Stirling gate. I'll place thee in a lovely bower, I'll guard thee like a tender flower--' 'O hush, Sir Knight! 't were female art, To say I do not read thy heart; Too much, before, my selfish ear Was idly soothed my praise to hear. That fatal bait hath lured thee back, In deathful hour, o'er dangerous track; And how, O how, can I atone The wreck my vanity brought on!-- One way remains--I'll tell him all-- Yes! struggling bosom, forth it shall! Thou, whose light folly bears the blame, Buy thine own pardon with thy shame! But first--my father is a man Outlawed and exiled, under ban; The price of blood is on his head, With me 't were infamy to wed. Still wouldst thou speak?--then hear the truth! Fitz-James, there is a noble youth-- If yet he is!--exposed for me And mine to dread extremity-- Thou hast the secret of my bears; Forgive, be generous, and depart!'

XVIII.

Fitz-James knew every wily train A lady's fickle heart to gain, But here he knew and felt them vain. There shot no glance from Ellen's eye, To give her steadfast speech the lie; In maiden confidence she stood, Though mantled in her cheek the blood And told her love with such a sigh Of deep and hopeless agony, As death had sealed her Malcolm's doom And she sat sorrowing on his tomb. Hope vanished from Fitz-James's eye, But not with hope fled sympathy. He proffered to attend her side, As brother would a sister guide. 'O little know'st thou Roderick's heart! Safer for both we go apart. O haste thee, and from Allan learn If thou mayst trust yon wily kern.' With hand upon his forehead laid, The conflict of his mind to shade, A parting step or two he made; Then, as some thought had crossed his brain He paused, and turned, and came again.

XIX.

'Hear, lady, yet a parting word!-- It chanced in fight that my poor sword Preserved the life of Scotland's lord. This ring the grateful Monarch gave, And bade, when I had boon to crave, To bring it back, and boldly claim The recompense that I would name. Ellen, I am no courtly lord, But one who lives by lance and sword, Whose castle is his helm and shield, His lordship the embattled field. What from a prince can I demand, Who neither reck of state nor land? Ellen, thy hand--the ring is thine; Each guard and usher knows the sign. Seek thou the King without delay; This signet shall secure thy way: And claim thy suit, whate'er it be, As ransom of his pledge to me.' He placed the golden circlet on, Paused--kissed her hand--and then was gone. The aged Minstrel stood aghast, So hastily Fitz-James shot past. He joined his guide, and wending down The ridges of the mountain brown, Across the stream they took their way That joins Loch Katrine to Achray.

All in the Trosachs' glen was still, Noontide was sleeping on the hill: Sudden his guide whooped loud and high-- 'Murdoch! was that a signal cry?'-- He stammered forth, 'I shout to scare Yon raven from his dainty fare.' He looked--he knew the raven's prey, His own brave steed: 'Ah! gallant gray! For thee--for me, perchance--'t were well We ne'er had seen the Trosachs' dell.-- Murdoch, move first---but silently; Whistle or whoop, and thou shalt die!' Jealous and sullen on they fared, Each silent, each upon his guard.

XXI.

Now wound the path its dizzy ledge Around a precipice's edge, When lo! a wasted female form, Blighted by wrath of sun and storm, In tattered weeds and wild array, Stood on a cliff beside the way, And glancing round her restless eye, Upon the wood, the rock, the sky, Seemed naught to mark, yet all to spy. Her brow was wreathed with gaudy broom; With gesture wild she waved a plume Of feathers, which the eagles fling To crag and cliff from dusky wing; Such spoils her desperate step had sought, Where scarce was footing for the goat. The tartan plaid she first descried, And shrieked till all the rocks replied; As loud she laughed when near they drew, For then the Lowland garb she knew; And then her hands she wildly wrung, And then she wept, and then she sung-- She sung!--the voice, in better time, Perchance to harp or lute might chime; And now, though strained and roughened, still Rung wildly sweet to dale and hill.

XXII.

Song.

They bid me sleep, they bid me pray, They say my brain is warped and wrung-- I cannot sleep on Highland brae, I cannot pray in Highland tongue. But were I now where Allan glides, Or heard my native Devan's tides, So sweetly would I rest, and pray That Heaven would close my wintry day!

'Twas thus my hair they bade me braid, They made me to the church repair; It was my bridal morn they said, And my true love would meet me there. But woe betide the cruel guile That drowned in blood the morning smile! And woe betide the fairy dream! I only waked to sob and scream.

XXIII.

'Who is this maid? what means her lay? She hovers o'er the hollow way, And flutters wide her mantle gray, As the lone heron spreads his wing, By twilight, o'er a haunted spring.' ''Tis Blanche of Devan,' Murdoch said, 'A crazed and captive Lowland maid, Ta'en on the morn she was a bride, When Roderick forayed Devan-side. The gay bridegroom resistance made, And felt our Chief's unconquered blade. I marvel she is now at large, But oft she 'scapes from Maudlin's charge.-- Hence, brain-sick fool!'--He raised his bow:-- 'Now, if thou strik'st her but one blow, I'll pitch thee from the cliff as far As ever peasant pitched a bar!' 'Thanks, champion, thanks' the Maniac cried, And pressed her to Fitz-James's side. 'See the gray pennons I prepare, To seek my true love through the air! I will not lend that savage groom, To break his fall, one downy plume! No!--deep amid disjointed stones, The wolves shall batten on his bones, And then shall his detested plaid, By bush and brier in mid-air stayed, Wave forth a banner fail and free, Meet signal for their revelry.'

XXIV

'Hush thee, poor maiden, and be still!' 'O! thou look'st kindly, and I will. Mine eye has dried and wasted been, But still it loves the Lincoln green; And, though mine ear is all unstrung, Still, still it loves the Lowland tongue.

'For O my sweet William was forester true, He stole poor Blanche's heart away! His coat it was all of the greenwood hue, And so blithely he trilled the Lowland lay!

'It was not that I meant to tell... But thou art wise and guessest well.' Then, in a low and broken tone, And hurried note, the song went on. Still on the Clansman fearfully She fixed her apprehensive eye, Then turned it on the Knight, and then Her look glanced wildly o'er the glen.

XXV.

'The toils are pitched, and the stakes are set,-- Ever sing merrily, merrily; The bows they bend, and the knives they whet, Hunters live so cheerily.

It was a stag, a stag of ten, Bearing its branches sturdily; He came stately down the glen,-- Ever sing hardily, hardily.

'It was there he met with a wounded doe, She was bleeding deathfully; She warned him of the toils below, O. so faithfully, faithfully!

'He had an eye, and he could heed,-- Ever sing warily, warily; He had a foot, and he could speed,-- Hunters watch so narrowly.'