| |
|
"Have, then,
thy wish!"--he whistled shrill,
And he was answer'd
from the hill;
Wild as the scream of the curlew,
From crag to crag the signal flew.
Instant, through
copse and heath,
Bonnets and spears and bended bows;
On right, on left, above, below,
Sprung up at once
the lurking foe;
From shingles gray their lances
start,
The bracken bush sends forth the dart,
The
rushes and the willow-wand
Are bristling into axe and
brand,
And every tuft of broom gives life
To
plaided warrior arm'd for strife.
That whistle
garrison'd the glen
At once with full five hundred
men,
As if the yawning hill to heaven
A
subterranean host had given.
Watching their leader's
beck and will,
All silent there they stood, and
still.
Like the loose crags whose threatening mass
Lay tottering o'er the hollow pass,
As if an infant's
touch could urge
Their headlong passage down the
verge,
With step and weapon forward flung,
Upon
the mountain-side they hung.
The Mountaineer cast
glance of pride
Along Benledi's living side,
Then
fix'd his eye and sable brow
Full on Fitz-James--"How
say'st thou now?
These are Clan-Alpine's warriors
true;
And, Saxon,--I am Roderick Dhu!"X
Fitz-James was brave:--Though to his heart
The
life-blood thrill'd with sudden start,
He mann'd
himself with dauntless air,
Return'd the Chief his
haughty stare,
His back against a rock he bore,
And firmly placed his foot before:--
"Come one, come
all! this rock shall fly
From its firm base as soon
as I."
Sir Roderick mark'd--and in his eyes
Respect was mingled with surprise,
And the stern joy
which warriors feel
In foemen worthy of their steel.
Short space he stood, then waved his hand:
Down sunk
the disappearing band;
Each warrior vanish'd where he
stood,
In broom or bracken, heath or wood;
Sunk
brand and spear and bended bow,
In osiers pale and
copses low;
It seem'd as if their mother Earth
Had
swallow'd up her warlike birth.
The wind's last
breath had toss'd in air,
Pennon, and plaid, and
plumage fair,--
The next but swept a lone hill-side,
Where heath and fern were waving wide:
The sun's last
glance was glinted back,
From spear and glaive, from
targe and jack,--
The next, all unreflected, shone
On bracken green, and cold grey stone.XI
Fitz-James look'd round--yet scarce believed
The
witness that his sight received;
Such apparition well
might seem
Delusion of a dreadful dream.
Sir
Roderick in suspense he eyed,
And to his look the
Chief replied,
"Fear nought--nay, that I need not
say--
But--doubt not aught from mine array.
Thou
art my guest;--I pledged my word
As far as
Coilantogle ford:
Nor would I call a clansman's brand
For aid against one valiant hand,
Though on our
strife lay every vale
Rent by the Saxon from the
Gael.
So move we on;--I only meant
To show the
reed on which you leant,
Deeming this path you might
pursue
Without a pass from Roderick Dhu."
They
moved:--I said Fitz-James was brave,
As ever knight
that belted glaive;
Yet dare not say, that now his
blood
Kept on its wont and temper'd flood,
As,
following Roderick's stride, he drew
That seeming
lonesome pathway through,
Which yet, by fearful
proof, was rife
With lances, that, to take his life,
Waited but signal from a guide,
So late dishonour'd
and defied.
Ever, by stealth, his eye sought round
The vanish'd guardians of the ground,
And still, from
copse and heather deep,
Fancy saw spear and
broadsword peep,
And in the plover's shrilly strain,
The signal-whistle heard again.
Nor breathed he free
till far behind
The pass was left; for then they wind
Along a wide and level green,
Where neither tree nor
tuft was seen,
Nor rush nor bush of broom was near,
To hide a bonnet or a spear.XII
The Chief in
silence strode before,
And reach'd that torrent's
sounding shore
Which, daughter of three mighty lakes,
From Vennachar in silver breaks,
Sweeps through the
plain, and ceaseless mines
On Bochastle the
mouldering lines,
Where Rome, the Empress of the
world,
Of yore her eagle wings unfurl'd.
And here
his course the Chieftain staid,
Threw down his target
and his plaid,
And to the Lowland warrior said:--
"Bold Saxon! to his promise just,
Vich-Alpine has
discharged his trust.
This murderous Chief, this
ruthless man,
This head of a rebellious clan,
Hath
led thee safe, through watch and ward,
Far past
Clan-Alpine's outmost guard.
Now man to man, and
steel to steel,
A Chieftain's vengeance thou shalt
feel.
See here, all vantageless I stand,
Arm'd,
like thyself, with single brand:
For this is
Coilantogle ford,
And thou must keep thee with thy
sword."--XIII
The Saxon paused:--"I ne'er
delay'd,
When foeman bade me draw my blade;
Nay
more, brave Chief, I vow'd thy death:
Yet sure thy
fair and generous faith,
And my deep debt for life
preserved,
A better meed have well deserved:
Can
nought but blood our feud atone?
Are there no
means?"--"No, Stranger, none!
And hear,--to fire thy
flagging zeal,--
The Saxon cause rests on thy steel;
For thus spoke Fate, by prophet bred
Between the
living and the dead:
'Who spills the foremost
foeman's life,
His party conquers in the strife.' "--
"Then, by my word," the Saxon said,
"The riddle is
already read.
Seek yonder brake beneath the cliff,--
There lies Red Murdoch, stark and stiff.
Thus Fate
has solved her prophecy,
Then yield to Fate, and not
to me.
To James, at Stirling, let us go,
When, if
thou wilt be still his foe,
Or if the King shall not
agree
To grant thee grace and favour free,
I
plight mine honour, oath, and word,
That, to thy
native strengths restored,
With each advantage shalt
thou stand,
That aids thee now to guard thy land."XIV
Dark lightning flash'd from Roderick's eye
"Soars thy presumption, then, so high,
Because a
wretched kern ye slew,
Homage to name to Roderick Dhu?
He yields not, he, to man nor Fate!
Thou add'st but
fuel to my hate:--
My clansman's blood demands
revenge.
Not yet prepared?--By heaven, I change
My
thought, and hold thy valour light
As that of some
vain carpet knight,
Who ill deserved my courteous
care,
And whose best boast is but to wear
A braid
of his fair lady's hair."--
--"I thank thee,
Roderick, for the word!
It nerves my heart, it steels
my sword;
For I have sworn this braid to stain
In
the best blood that warms thy vein.
Now, truce,
farewell! and, ruth, begone!--
Yet think not that by
thee alone,
Proud Chief! can courtesy be shown;
Though not from copse, or heath, or cairn,
Start at
my whistle clansmen stern,
On this small horn one
feeble blast
Would fearful odds against thee cast.
But fear not--doubt not--which thou wilt--
We try
this quarrel hilt to hilt."
Then each at once his
falchion drew,
Each on the ground his scabbard threw,
Each look'd to sun, and stream, and plain,
As what
they ne'er might see again;
Then foot, and point, and
eye opposed,
In dubious strife they darkly closed.XV
Ill fared it then with Roderick Dhu,
That on
the field his targe he threw,
Whose brazen studs and
tough bull-hide
Had death so often dash'd aside;
For, train'd abroad his arms to wield,
Fitz-James's
blade was sword and shield.
He practised every pass
and ward,
To thrust, to strike, to feint, to guard;
While less expert, though stronger far,
The Gael
maintain'd unequal war.
Three times in closing strife
they stood,
And thrice the Saxon blade drank blood;
No stinted draught, no scanty tide,
The gushing flood
the tartans dyed.
Fierce Roderick felt the fatal
drain,
And shower'd his blows like wintry rain;
And, as firm rock, or castle-roof,
Against the winter
shower is proof,
The foe, invulnerable still,
Foil'd his wild rage by steady skill;
Till, at
advantage ta'en, his brand
Forced Roderick's weapon
from his hand,
And backward borne upon the lea,
Brought the proud Chieftain to his knee.XVI
"Now,
yield thee, or by Him who made
The world, thy heart's
blood dyes my blade!"--
"Thy threats, thy mercy, I
defy!
Let recreant yield, who fears to die."
--Like adder darting from his coil,
Like wolf that
dashes through the toil,
Like mountain-cat who guards
her young,
Full at Fitz-James's throat he sprung;
Received, but reck'd not of a wound,
And lock'd his
arms his foeman round.--
Now, gallant Saxon, hold
thine own!
No maiden's hand is round thee thrown!
That desperate grasp thy frame might feel,
Through
bars of brass and triple steel!--
They tug, they
strain! down, down they go,
The Gael above,
Fitz-James below.
The Chieftain's gripe his throat
compress'd,
His knee was planted in his breast;
His clotted locks he backward threw,
Across his brow
his hand he drew,
From blood and mist to clear his
sight,
Then gleam'd aloft his dagger bright!--
--But hate and fury ill supplied
The stream of life's
exhausted tide,
And all too late the advantage came,
To turn the odds of deadly game;
For, while the
dagger gleam'd on high,
Reel'd soul and sense, reel'd
brain and eye.
Down came the blow! but in the heath
The erring blade found bloodless sheath.
The
struggling foe may now unclasp
The fainting Chief's
relaxing grasp;
Unwounded from the dreadful close,
But breathless all, Fitz-James arose.
|
|
|
