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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 FitzJames was brave

       As ever knight that belted glaive,

       Yet dare not say that now his blood

       Kept on its wont and tempered 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 dishonored and defied.

       Ever, by stealth, his eye sought round

       The vanished guardians of the ground,

       And stir’d 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 reached 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 unfurled.

       And here his course the Chieftain stayed,

       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,

       Armed 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 delayed,

       When foeman bade me draw my blade;

       Nay more, brave Chief, I vowed thy death;

       Yet sure thy fair and generous faith,

       And my deep debt for life preserved,

       A better meed have well deserved:

       Can naught 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 hath 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 favor free,

       I plight mine honor, 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 flashed 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 valor 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, rush, 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,

       Of 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 looked 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 dashed aside;

       For, trained abroad his arms to wield

      

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