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And, as the moon shone bright and cold, Soon reached the camp upon the wold. The southern entrance I passed through,
And halted, and my bugle blew.
Methought an answer met my ear,
So hollow, and so faintly blown,
It might be echo of my own.
“ Thus judging, for a little space
But scarce could trust my eyes,
A mounted champion rise.-
Have borne me as a knight;
I trembled with affright;
I scarce could couch it right.
“ Why need my tongue the issue tell ?
We ran our course,-my charger fell ;-
I rolled upon the plain.
Yet did the worst remain ;
Their sight, like what I saw !
Full on his face the moonbeam strook,
A face could never be mistook!
I knew the stern vindictive look,
And held my breath for awe.
I saw the face of one who, fled
I well believe the last;
For ne'er, from visor raised, did stare
So grimly and so ghast.
He plunged it in the sheath;
Sunk down upon the heath.
"Twere long to tell what cause I have
To know his face, that met me there,
Called by his hatred from the grave
Dead, or alive, good cause had he
Marvelled Sir David of the Mount;
Then, learned in story, 'gan recount
Such chance had happ'd of old,
With Brian Bulmer bold,
And trained him nigh to disallow
The aid of his baptismal vow.
“ And such a phantom, too, 'tis said, With Highland broad-sword, targe, and plaid,
And fingers red with gore,
Is seen in Rothiemurcus glade,
Dromouchty, or Glenmore.*
On mountain, moor, or plain,
These midnight terrors vain ;
Lord Marmion turned him half aside,
And twice to clear his voice he tried,
Then pressed Sir David's hand, But nought, at length, in answer said; And here their farther converse staid,
* See the traditions concerning Bulmer, and the spectre called Lhamdearg, or Bloody-hand, in a note on Canto III.