XXII. Thus strangely left, long sobb'd and wept The page, till, wearied out, he slept A rough voice waked his dream" Nay, here, Here by this thicket, pass'd the deer Beneath that oak old Ryno staid What have we here ?-a Scottish plaid, And in its folds a stripling laid?- Come forth thy name and business tell !— The spy that sought old Cuthbert's cell, Wafted from Arran yester morn Come, comrades, we will strait return. Our Lord may choose the rack should teach To this young lurcher use of speech. Thy bow-string, till I bind him fast.” Nay, but he weeps and stands aghast; Unbound we'll lead him, fear it not; 'Tis a fair stripling, though a Scot." The hunters to the castle sped, And there the hapless captive led. XXIII. Stout Clifford in the castle-court Prepared him for the morning sport; Replying to that Southern Lord, Mix'd with this clanging din, might seem The phantasm of a fever'd dream. The tone upon his ringing ears Came like the sounds which fancy hears, When in rude waves or roaring winds Some words of woe the muser finds, Until more loudly and more near, Their speech arrests the page's ear. XXIV. "And was she thus," said Clifford, "lost? The priest should rue it to his cost! What says the monk ?"—" The holy Sire Owns, that in masquer's quaint attire, She sought his skiff, disguised, unknown But, says the priest, a bark from Lorn Laid them aboard that very morn, They sever'd, and they met no more. And scandal of her lofty race! Thrice better she had ne'er been born, Than brought her infamy on Lorn!"— XXV. Lord Clifford now the captive spied ; "Whom, Herbert, hast thou there?" he cried. "A spy we seized within the Chase, An hollow oak his lurking place.”. "What tidings can the youth afford ?"— "He plays the mute."" Then noose a cord Unless brave Lorn reverse the doom For his plaid's sake.” Clan-Colla's loom,” Said Lorn, whose careless glances trace Rather the vesture than the face, "Clan-Colla's dames such tartans twine; Wearer nor plaid claims care of mine. Give him, if my advice you crave, His own scathed oak; and let him wave In air, unless, by terror wrung, A frank confession find his tongue.— Nor shall he die without his rite; "O brother! cruel to the last !" Through the poor captive's bosom pass'd He said not, though he sigh'd, “ Adieu!”. XXVI. And will he keep his purpose still, In sight of that last closing ill, When one poor breath, one single word, May freedom, safety, life, afford? Can he resist the instinctive call, For life that bids us barter all? Love, strong as death, his heart hath steel'd, |