The spatter'd brain and bubbling blood Hiss'd on the half-extinguish'd wood, The miscreant gasp'd and fell! Nor rose in peace the Island Lord; And one beneath his grasp lies prone, In mortal grapple over-thrown. But while Lord Ronald's dagger drank The life-blood from his panting flank, The Father-ruffian of the band Behind him rears a coward hand! -O for a moment's aid, Till Bruce, who deals no double blow, Dash to the earth another foe, Above his comrade laid! And it is gain'd-the captive sprung On the raised arm, and closely clung, And, ere he shook him loose, The master'd felon press'd the ground, And gasp'd beneath a mortal wound, While o'er him stands The Bruce. XXX. "Miscreant! while lasts thy flitting spark, That arm'd thy hand with murderous knife, -No stranger thou!" with accent fell, Murmur'd the wretch; "I know thee well; And know thee for the foeman sworn Of my high chief, the mighty Lorn.""Speak yet again, and speak the truth For thy soul's sake!-from whence this youth? His country, birth, and name declare, And thus one evil deed repair." "Vex me no more!... my blood runs cold... No more I know than I have told. We found him in a bark we sought With different purpose and I thought”.. ... Fate cut him short; in blood and broil, As he had lived, died Cormac Doil. XXXI. Then resting on his bloody blade, The valiant Bruce to Ronald said, "Now shame upon us both!—that boy Lifts his mute face to heaven, And clasps his hands, to testify His gratitude to God on high, For strange deliverance given. His speechless gesture thanks hath paid, And plunged the weapon in its sheath. Fate doom'd, when with so soft a heart, She made thee first a pirate's slave, Then, in his stead, a patron gave Of wayward lot like mine; A landless prince, whose wandering life Enough thy generous grief is paid, And well has Allan's fate been wroke ;Come, wend we hence the day has broke. Seek we our bark-I trust the tale Was false, that she had hoisted sail." XXXII. Yet ere they left that charnel-cell, The Island Lord bade sad farewell To Allan :- "Who shall tell this tale," He said, "in halls of Donagaile! That, ere his bloom, her fairest fell !— While o'er those caitiffs, where they lie, On the dark lake threw lustre red; In sad discourse the warriors wind, END OF CANTO THIRD. |