some five or six men-at-arms, who had mounted their horses. The Templar's retreat was rendered perilous by the numbers of arrows shot off at him and his party; but this did not prevent him from galloping round to the barbican, of which, according to his previous plan, he supposed it possible De Bracy might have been in possession. "De Bracy! De Bracy!" he shouted, "art thou there ?" "I am here,” replied De Bracy, "but I am a prisoner." "Can I rescue thee ?" cried Bois-Guilbert. "No," replied De Bracy; "I have rendered me, rescue or no rescue. I will be true prisoner. Save thyself-there are hawks abroad-put the seas betwixt you and England-I dare not say more." "Well," answered the Templar, "an thou wilt tarry there, remember I have redeemed word and glove. Be the hawks where they will, methinks the walls of the Preceptory of Templestow will be cover sufficient, and thither will I, like heron to her haunt." Having thus spoken, he galloped off, with his followers. Those of the castle who had not gotten to horse, still continued to fight desperately against the besiegers, after the departure of the Templar, but rather in despair of quarter than that they entertained any hope of escape. The fire was spreading rapidly through all parts of the castle, when Ulrica, who had first kindled it, appeared on a turret, in the guise of one of the ancient furies, yelling forth a war-song, such as was of yore chaunted on the field of battle by the scalds of the yet heathen Saxons. Her long dishevelled grey hair flew back from her uncovered head; the inebriating delight of gratified vengeance contended in her eyes with the fire of insanity; and she brandished the distaff which she held in her hand, as if she had been one of the Fatal Sisters, who spin and abridge the thread of human life. Tradition has preserved some wild strophes of the barbarous hymn which she chaunted wildly amid that scene of fire and of slaughter :— Whet the bright steel, Sons of the White Dragon! Kindle the torch, Daughter of Hengist ! 1. The steel glimmers not for the carving of the banquet, It is hard, broad, and sharply pointed; The torch goeth not to the bridal chamber, It steams and glitters blue with sulphur. Whet the steel, the raven croaks ! 2. The black cloud is low over the thane's castle; Thy banquet is prepared! The maidens of Valhalla look forth, The race of Hengist will send them guests. Shake your black tresses, maidens of Valhalla! And strike your loud timbrels for joy! Many a haughty step bends to your halls, 3. Dark sits the evening upon the thane's castle, The black clouds gather round; Soon shall they be red as the blood of the valiant! The destroyer of forests shall shake his red crest against them, He, the bright consumer of palaces, Broad waves he his blazing banner, Red, wide, and dusky, Over the strife of the valiant: His joy is in the clashing swords and broken bucklers; He loves to lick the hissing blood as it bursts warm from the wound! All must perish! The sword cleaveth the helmet ; The strong armour is pierced by the lance; Fire devoureth the dwelling of princes, Engines break down the fences of the battle. All must perish! The race of Hengist is gone The name of Horsa is no more! Shrink not then from your doom, sons of the sword! Let your blades drink blood like wine; Feast ye in the banquet of slaughter, By the light of the blazing halls! Strong be your swords while your blood is warm, And spare neither for pity nor fear, For vengeance hath but an hour; Strong hate itself shall expire! The towering flames had now surmounted every obstruction, and rose to the evening skies one huge and burning beacon, seen far and wide through the adjacent country. Tower after tower crashed down, with blazing roof and rafter; and the combatants were driven from the court-yard. The vanquished, of whom very few remained, scattered and escaped into the neighbouring wood. The victors, assembling in large bands, gazed with wonder, not unmixed with fear, upon the flames, in which their own ranks and arms glanced dusky red. The maniac figure of the Saxon Ulrica was for a long time visible on the lofty stand she had chosen, tossing her arms abroad with wild exultation, as if she reigned empress of the conflagration which she had raised. At length, with a terrific crash, the whole turret gave way, and she perished in the flames which had consumed her tyrant. An awful pause of horror silenced each murmur of the armed spectators, who, for the space of several minutes, stirred not a finger, save to sign the cross. The voice of Locksley was then heard, "Shout, yeomen!-the den of tyrants is no more! Let each |