« Sit,» Bertram said, « from danger free;
Thou canst not, and thou shalt not, flee.
Chance brings me hither; hill and plain
I've sought for refuge-place in vain.
And tell me now, thou aguish boy,

What makest thou here? what means this toy?
Denzil and thou, I mark'd, were ta'en;
What lucky chance unbound your chain?
I deem'd, long since on Baliol's tower,
Your heads were warp'd with sun and shower.
Tell me the whole-and mark! nought e'er
Chafes me like falsehood, or like fear.»-
Gathering his courage to his aid,
But trembling still, the youth obey'd.

VII.

Denzil and I two nights pass'd o'er, In fetters on the dungeon-floor. A guest the third sad morrow brought; Our hold dark Oswald Wycliffe sought, And eyed my comrade long askance, With fix'd and penetrating glance. 'Guy Denzil art thou call'd?'—' The same.'At court who served wild Buckinghame; Thence banish'd, won a keeper's place, So Villiers will'd, in Marwood chase; That lost-I need not tell thee whyThou madest thy wit thy wants supply, Then fought for Rokeby :-have I guess'd My prisoner right? At thy behest.'He paused awhile, and then went on With low and confidential tone; Me, as I judge, not then he saw, Close nestled in my couch of straw.—~

List to me, Guy. Thou know'st the great Have frequent need of what they hate; Hence, in their favour oft we see Unscrupled, useful men, like thee. Were I disposed to bid thee live,

What pledge of faith hast thou to give?'

VIII.

The ready fiend, who never yet Hath fail'd to sharpen Denzil's wit, Prompted his lie- His only child

Should rest his pledge. The baron smiled,

And turn'd to me- Thou art his son?'

I bow'd-our fetters were undone.

And we were led to hear apart

A dreadful lesson of his art.
Wilfrid, he said, his heir and son,
Had fair Matilda's favour won;
And long since had their union been,
But for her father's bigot spleen,
Whose brute and blindfold party rage
Would, force perforce, her hand engage
To a base kern of Irish earth,
Unknown his lineage and his birth,
Save that a dying ruffian bore
The infant brat to Rokeby door.
Gentle restraint, he said, would lead
Old Rokeby to enlarge his creed;
But fair occasion he must find

For such restraint well-meant and kind,
The knight being render'd to his charge
But as a prisoner at large.

IX.

« He school'd us in a well-forged tale,
Of scheme the castle walls to scale,
To which was leagued each cavalier,
That dwells upon the Tyne and Wear;
That Rokeby, his parole forgot,
Had dealt with us to aid the plot.
Such was the charge, which Denzil's zeal
Of hate to Rokeby and O'Neale
Proffer'd, as witness, to make good,
Even though the forfeit were their blood.
I scrupled, until o'er and o'er

His prisoner's safety Wycliffe swore,
And then-alas! what needs there more?
I knew I should not live to say
The proffer I refused that day;
Ashamed to live, yet loth to die,
I soil'd me with their infamy!»-

« Poor youth,» said Bertram, «< wavering still, Unfit alike for good or ill!

But what fell next?»-« Soon as at large
Was scroll'd and sign'd our fatal charge,
There never yet, on tragic stage,
Was seen so well a painted rage
As Oswald show'd! with loud alarm

He call'd his garrison to arm;

From tower to tower, from post to post,
He hurried as if all were lost;

Consign'd to dungeon and to chain

The good old knight and all his train,
Warn'd each suspected cavalier,
Within his limits, to appear
To-morrow, at the hour of noon,
In the high church of Eglistone. »—

X.

<«< Of Eglistone! Even now I pass'd,»
Said Bertram, «as the night closed fast;
Torches and cressets gleam'd around,
I heard the saw and hammer sound,
And I could mark they toil'd to raise
A scaffold, hung with sable baize,

Which the grim headsman's scene display'd,
Block, axe, and saw-dust, ready laid.
Some evil deed will there be done,
Unless Matilda wed his son ;-

She loves him not-'t is shrewdly guess'd
That Redmond rules the damsel's breast.
This is a turn of Oswald's skill;

But I may meet, and foil him still!--
How camest thou to thy freedom?»-« There
Lies mystery more dark and rare.
In midst of Wycliffe's well-feign'd rage,
A scroll was offer'd by a page,

Who told, a muffled horseman late
Had left it at the castle-gate.

*

He broke the seal-his cheek show'd change,
Sudden, portentous, wild, and strange;
The mimic passion of his eye

Was turn'd to aetual agony,

His hand like summer-sapling shook,
Terror and guilt were in his look.
Denzil he judged, in time of need,
Fit counsellor for evil deed,
And thus apart his counsel broke,
While with a ghastly smile he spoke.

XI.

«As, in the pageants of the stage,
The dead awake in this wild age,
Mortham-whom all men deem'd decreed
In his own deadly snare to bleed,
Slain by a bravo, whom, o'er sea,
He train'd to aid in murthering me,-
Mortham has 'scaped; the coward shot
The steed, but harm'd the rider nought.'»-
Here, with an execration fell,

Bertram leap'd up, and paced the cell;
«Thine own gray head, or bosom dark,»
He mutter'd, may be surer mark!»—
Then sate, and sign'd to Edmund, pale
With terror, to resume his tale.

Wycliffe went on:- Mark with what flights Of wilder'd reverie he writes:

THE LETTER.

« 'Ruler of Mortham's destiny! Though dead, thy victim lives to thee. Once had he all that binds to life,

A lovely child, a lovelier wife;

Wealth, fame, and friendship, were his own-
Thou gavest the word, and they are flown.
Mark how he pays thee:-to thy hand
He yields his honours and his land,
One boon premised;-Restore his child!
And, from his native land exiled,
Mortham no more returns, to claim
His lands, his honours, or his name;
Refuse him this, and from the slain
Thou shalt see Mortham rise again.'-

XII.

« This billet while the baron read, His faltering accents show'd his dread; He press'd his forehead with his palm, Then took a scornful tone and calm; 'Wild as the winds, as billows wild! What wot I of his spouse or child? Hither he brought a joyous dame, Unknown her lineage or her name; Her, in some frantic fit, he slew; The nurse and child in fear withdrew. Heaven be my witness, wist I where To find this youth, my kinsman's heir,Unguerdon'd, I would give with joy The father's arms to fold his boy, And Mortham's lands and towers resign To the just heir of Mortham's line.'Thou know'st that scarcely e'en his fear Suppresses Denzil's cynic sneer ;Then happy is thy vassal's part,' He said, 'to ease his patron's heart! In thine own jailer's watchful care Lies Mortham's just and rightful heir; Thy generous wish is fully won, Redmond O'Neale is Mortham's son.'

XIII.

Up starting with a frenzied look, His clenched hand the baron shook: Is hell at work? or dost thou rave, Or darest thou palter with me, slave?

Perchance thou wot'st not, Barnard's towers
Have racks, of strange and ghastly powers."
Denzil, who well his safety knew,
Firmly rejoin'd, 'I tell thee true.
Thy racks could give thee but to know
The proofs, which I, untortured, show.-
It chanced upon a winter night,
When early snow made Stanmore white,
That very night, when first of all
Redmond O'Neale saw Rokeby-hall,
It was my goodly lot to gain
A reliquary and a chain,
Twisted and chased of massive gold.
-Demand not how the prize I hold!
It was not given, nor lent, nor sold.-
Gilt tablets to the chain were hung,
With letters in the Irish tongue.

I hid my spoil, for there was need.
That I should leave the land with speed;
Nor then I deem'd it safe to bear
On mine own person gems so rare.
Small heed I of the tablets took,
But since have spell'd them by the book,
When some sojourn in Eriu's land

Of their wild speech had given command.
But darkling was the sense; the phrase
And language those of other days,
Involved of

purpose, as to foil
An interloper's prying toil,
The words, but not the sense, I knew,
Till fortune gave the guiding clue.

XIV.

«Three days since, was that clue reveal'd,
In Thorsgill as I lay conceal'd,
And heard at full when Rokeby's maid
Her uncle's history display'd;
And now I can interpret well;
Each syllable the tablets tell.
Mark then: Fair Edith was the joy
Of old O'Neale of Clandeboy,
But from her sire and country fled,
In secret Mortham's lord to wed.
O'Neale, his first resentment o'er,
Dispatch'd his son to Greta's shore,
Enjoining he should make him known
(Until his farther will were shown),
To Edith, but to her alone.

What of their ill-starr'd meeting fell,
Lord Wycliffe knows, and none so well.

XV.

«O'Neale it was, who, in despair,
Robb'd Mortham of his infant heir;
He bred him in their nurture wild,
And call'd him murder'd Connal's child.
Soon died the nurse; the elan believed
What from their chieftain they received.
His purpose was, that ne'er again
The boy should cross the Irish main,
But, like his mountain sires, enjoy
The woods and wastes of Clandeboy.
Then on the land wild troubles came,
And stronger chieftains urged a claim,
And wrested from the old man's hands
His native towers, his father's lands.

Coable then, amid the strife,

To guard young Redmond's rights or life, Late and reluctant be restores

The infant to his native shores,

With goodly gifts and letters stored,
With many a deep conjuring word,
To Mortham and to Rokeby's lord.
Nought knew the clod of Irish earth,
Who was the guide, of Redmond's birth;
But deem'd his chief's commands were laid

On both, by both to be obey'd.

How he was wounded by the way,

I need not, and I list not say.'

XVI.

'A wond'rous tale! and grant it true,
What, Wycliffe answer'd, 'might I do?
Heaven knows, as willingly as now
I raise the bonnet from my brow,
Would I my kinsman's manors fair
Restore to Mortham or his heir;
But Mortham is distraught-O'Neale
Has drawn for tyranny his steel,
Malignant to our rightful cause,
And train'd in Rome's delusive laws.

Bark thee apart!-They whisper'd long,
Till Denzil's voice grew bold and strong:-
My proofs! I never will,' he said,
'Show mortal man where they are laid.
Nor hope discovery to foreclose,
By giving me to feed the crows;
For I have mates at large, who know
Where I am wont such toys to stow.
Free me from peril and from band,
These tablets are at thy command;
Nor were it hard to form some train,
To wile old Mortham o'er the main.
Then, innatic's nor papist's hand

Should wrest from thine the goodly land.'

- like thy wit,' said Wycliffe, 'well;
But here in hostage shalt thou dwell.
Thy son, unless my purpose err,
May prove the trustier messenger.
A scroll to Mortham shall he bear
From me, and fetch these tokens rare.
Gold shalt thou have, and that good store,
And freedom, his commission o'er;
But if his faith should chance to fail,
The gibbet frees thee from the jail.'—
XVIL

Mesh'd in the net himself had twined,
What subterfuge could Denzil find?
He told me, with reluctant sigh,
That hidden here the tokens lie;
Conjured my swift return and aid,
By all he scoffd and disobey'd;
And look'd as if the noose were tied,
And I the priest who left his side.
This scroll for Mortham, Wycliffe gave,
Whom I must seek by Greta's wave,
Or in the hut where chief he hides,
Where Thorsgill's forester resides

(Thence chanced it, wandering in the glade, That he descried our ambuscade).

I was dismiss'd as evening feil,

And reach'd but now this rocky cell. »

« Give Oswald's letter.»-Bertram read, And tore it fiercely, shred by shred:

<«< All lies and villany! to blind
His noble kinsman's generous mind,
And train him on from day to day,
Till he can take his life
away.-
And now, declare thy purpose, youth,
Nor dare to answer, save the truth;
If aught I mark of Denzil's art,

I'll tear the secret from thy heart!»

XVIII.

It needs not. I renounce,» he said,
My tutor and his deadly trade.
Fix'd was my purpose to declare
To Mortham, Redmond is his heir;
To tell him in what risk he stands,
And yield these tokens to his hands.
Fix'd was my purpose to atone,

Far as I may, the evil done,

And fix'd it rests-if I survive

This night, and leave this cave alive.»>

« And Denzil ?»-« Let them ply the rack,
Even till his joints and sinews crack!
If Oswald tear him limb from limb,
What ruth can Denzil claim from him,
Whose thoughtless youth he led astray,
And damn'd to this unhallow'd way?
He school'd me, faith and vows were vain;
Now let my master reap his gain.»-

« True,» answer'd Bertram, «'t is his meed;
There's retribution in the deed.
But thou-thou art not for our course,
Hast fear, hast pity, ' ast remorse;
And he with us the gale who braves,
Must heave such cargo to the waves,

Or lag with overloaded prore,

While barks unburthen'd reach the shore.»>

XIX.

He paused, and, stretching him at length,
Seem'd to repose his bulky strength.
Communing with his secret mind,
As half he sate, and half reclined,
One ample hand his forehead press'd,
And one was dropp'd across his breast.
The shaggy eye-brows deeper came
Above his eyes of swarthy flame;
His lip of pride awhile forbore
The haughty curve till then it wore;
The unalter'd fierceness of his look
A shade of darken'd sadness took,--
For dark and sad a presage press'd
Resistlessly on Bertram's breast,—
And when he spoke, his wonted tone,
So fierce, abrupt, and brief, was gone.
His voice was steady, low, and deep,
Like distant waves when breezes sleep;
And sorrow mix'd with Edmund's fear,
Its low unbroken depth to hear.

Gliding by crag and copse-wood green,
A solitary form was seen

To trace with stealthy pace the wold,
Like fox that seeks the midnight fold,
And pauses oft, and cowers dismay'd,
At every breath that stirs the shade.
He passes now the ivy-bush,
The owl has seen him and is hush;
He passes now the dodder'd oak,
Ye heard the startled raven croak;
Lower and lower he descends,
Rustle the leaves, the brushwood bends;
The otter hears him tread the shore,
And dives, and is beheld no more;
And by the cliff of pale gray stone
The midnight wanderer stands alone.
Methinks, that by the moon we trace
A well-remember'd form and face!

That stripling shape, that cheek so pale,
Combine to tell a rueful tale,

Of powers misused, of passion's force, Of guilt, of grief, and of remorse! 'Tis Edmund's eye at every sound That flings that guilty glance around; "T is Edmund's trembling haste divides The brushwood that the cavern hides, And, when its narrow porch lies bare, "T is Edmund's form that enters there.

IV.

His flint and steel have sparkled bright,
A lamp hath lent the cavern light.
Fearful and quick his eye surveys
Each angle of the gloomy maze.
Since last he left that stern abode,
It seem'd as none its floor had trode;
Untouch'd appear'd the various spoil,
The purchase of his comrades' toil;
Masks and disguises grimed with mud,
Arms broken and defiled with blood,
And all the nameless tools that aid
Night-felons in their lawless trade,
Upon the gloomy walls were hung,
Or lay in nooks obscurely flung.
Still on the sordid board appear
The relics of the noontide cheer;
Flagons and emptied flasks were there,
And bench o'erthrown, and shatter'd chair;
And all around the semblance show'd,
As when the final revel glow'd,

When the red sun was setting fast,
And parting pledge Guy Denzil pass'd,
To Rokeby treasure-vaults! They quaffd,
And shouted loud and wildly laugh'd,
Pour'd maddening from the rocky door,
And parted-to return no more!
They found in Rokeby vaults their doom,-
A bloody death, a burning tomb.

V.

There his own peasant dress he spies,
Doff'd to assume that quaint disguise,
And shuddering thought upon his glee,
When prank'd in garb of minstrelsy.
« O be the fatal art accurst,»

He cried, « that moved my folly first,
Till bribed by bandits' base applause,

I burst through God's and nature's laws!
Three summer days are scantly past
Since I have trode this cavern last,

A thoughtless wretch, and prompt to err-
But O, as yet no murderer!

Even now I list my comrades' cheer,
That general laugh is in mine ear,

Which raised my pulse and steel'd my heart,
As I rehearsed my treacherous part-
And would that all since then could seem
The phantom of a fever's dream!
But fatal memory notes too well
The horrors of the dying yell,

From my despairing mates that broke,
When flash'd the fire and roll'd the smoke,
When the avengers shouting came,

And hemm'd us 'twixt the sword and flame!
My frantic flight,-the lifted brand,—
That angel's interposing hand!-
If for my life from slaughter freed,
I yet could pay some grateful meed!
Perchance this object of my quest
May aid he turn'd, nor spoke the rest.
VI.

Due northward from the rugged hearth,
With paces five he metes the earth,
Then toil'd with mattock to explore
The entrails of the cavern floor,

Nor paused till, deep beneath the ground,
His search a small steel casket found.
Just as he stoop'd to loose its hasp,
His shoulder felt a giant grasp;
He started, and look'd up aghast,

Then shriek'd-'t was Bertram held him fast. «Fear not!» he said; but who could hear That deep stern voice, and cease to fear?

« Fear not!-by Heaven he shakes as much
As partridge in the falcon's clutch !»—
He raised him, and unloosed his hold,
While from the opening casket roll'd
A chain and reliquaire of gold.
Bertram beheld it with surprise,
Gazed on its fashion and device,
Then, cheering Edmund as he could,
Somewhat he smooth'd his rugged mood;
For still the youth's half-lifted eye
Quiver'd with terror's agony,
And sidelong glanced, as to explore,
In meditated flight, the door.

«Sit,» Bertram said, « from danger free;
Thou canst not, and thou shalt not, flee."
Chance brings me hither; hill and plain
I've sought for refuge-place in vain.
And tell me now, thou aguish boy,

What makest thou here? what means this toy?
Denzil and thou, I mark'd, were ta'en;
What lucky chance unbound your chain?
I deem'd, long since on Baliol's tower,
Your heads were warp'd with sun and shower.
Tell me the whole-and mark! nought e'er
Chafes me like falsehood, or like fear.»>-
Gathering his courage to his aid,
But trembling still, the youth obey'd.

VII.

« Denzil and I two nights pass'd o'er,

In fetters on the dungeon-floor.

A

guest the third sad morrow brought; Our hold dark Oswald Wycliffe sought, And eyed my comrade long askance, With fix'd and penetrating glance. 'Gay Denzil art thou call'd?'-' The same.''At court who served wild Buckinghame; Thence banish'd, won a keeper's place, So Villiers will'd, in Marwood chase; That lost-I need not tell thee whyThou madest thy wit thy wants supply, Then fought for Rokeby :-have I guess'd My prisoner right?'-' At thy behest.'He paused awhile, and then went on With low and confidential tone; Me, as I judge, not then he saw, Close nestled in my couch of straw.'List to me, Guy. Thou know'st the great Have frequent need of what they hate; llence, in their favour oft we see Unserupled, useful men, like thee. Were I disposed to bid thee live,

What pledge of faith hast thou to give?

VIII.

The ready fiend, who never yet Hath fail'd to sharpen Denzil's wit, Prompted his lie- His only child

Should rest his pledge. The baron smiled, And turn'd to me- Thou art his son?'

I bow'd-our fetters were undone.

And we were led to hear apart

A dreadful lesson of his art.
Wilfrid, he said, his heir and son,
Had fair Matilda's favour won;
And long since had their union been,
But for her father's bigot spleen,
Whose brute and blindfold party rage
Would, force perforce, her hand engage
To a base kern of Irish earth,
Unknown his lineage and his birth,
Save that a dying ruffian bore
The infant brat to Rokeby door.
Gentle restraint, he said, would lead
Old Rokeby to enlarge his creed;
But fair occasion he must find

For such restraint well-meant and kind,
The knight being render'd to his charge
But as a prisoner at large.

« He school'd us in a well-forged tale,
Of scheme the castle walls to scale,
To which was leagued each cavalier,
That dwells upon the Tyne and Wear;
That Rokeby, his parole forgot,
Had dealt with us to aid the plot.
Such was the charge, which Denzil's zeal
Of hate to Rokeby and O'Neale
Proffer'd, as witness, to make good,
Even though the forfeit were their blood.
I scrupled, until o'er and o'er

His prisoner's safety Wycliffe swore,
And then-alas! what needs there more?

I knew I should not live to say
The proffer I refused that day;
Ashamed to live, yet loth to die,

I soil'd me with their infamy!»

« Poor youth,» said Bertram, «wavering still, Unfit alike for good or ill!

But what fell next?» - « Soon as at large
Was scroll'd and sign'd our fatal charge,
There never yet, on tragic stage,
Was seen so well a painted rage
As Oswald show'd! with loud alarm
He call'd his garrison to arm;

From tower to tower, from post to post,
He hurried as if all were lost;

Consign'd to dungeon and to chain
The good old knight and all his train,
Warn'd each suspected cavalier,
Within his limits, to appear
To-morrow, at the hour of noon,
In the high church of Eglistone. »—

X.

« Of Eglistone! Even now I pass'd,»
Said Bertram, « as the night closed fast;
Torches and cressets gleam'd around,

I heard the saw and hammer sound,
And I could mark they toil'd to raise
A scaffold, hung with sable baize,

Which the grim headsman's scene display'd,
Block, axe, and saw-dust, ready laid.
Some evil deed will there be done,

Unless Matilda wed his son;

She loves him not-'t is shrewdly guess'd

That Redmond rules the damsel's breast.
This is a turn of Oswald's skill;

But I may meet, and foil him still!

How camest thou to thy freedom?»-« There

Lies mystery more dark and rare.

In midst of Wycliffe's well-feign'd rage,
A scroll was offer'd by a page,

Who told, a muffled horseman late

Had left it at the castle-gate.

He broke the seal-his cheek show'd change,
Sudden, portentous, wild, and strange;
The mimic passion of his eye

Was turn'd to actual agony,

His hand like summer-sapling shook,
Terror and guilt were in his look.
Denzil he judged, in time of need,
Fit counsellor for evil deed,
And thus apart his counsel broke,
While with a ghastly smile he spoke.