[FITZ-JAMES AND RODERICK DHU]
IXAnd he was answer'd from the hill;Wild as the scream of the curlew,From crag to crag the signal flew.Instant, through copse and heath,Bonnets and spears and bended bows;On right, on left, above, below,Sprung up at once the lurking foe;From shingles gray their lances start,The bracken bush sends forth the dart,The rushes and the willow-wandAre bristling into axe and brand,And every tuft of broom gives lifeTo plaided warrior arm'd for strife.That whistle garrison'd the glenAt once with full five hundred men,As if the yawning hill to heavenA subterranean host had given.Watching their leader's beck and will,All silent there they stood, and still.Like the loose crags whose threatening massLay tottering o'er the hollow pass,As if an infant's touch could urgeTheir headlong passage down the verge,With step and weapon forward flung,Upon the mountain-side they hung.The Mountaineer cast glance of prideAlong Benledi's living side,Then fix'd his eye and sable browFull on Fitz-James--"How say'st thou now?These are Clan-Alpine's warriors true;And, Saxon,--I am Roderick Dhu!"
XThe life-blood thrill'd with sudden start,He mann'd himself with dauntless air,Return'd the Chief his haughty stare,His back against a rock he bore,And firmly placed his foot before:--"Come one, come all! this rock shall flyFrom its firm base as soon as I."Sir Roderick mark'd--and in his eyesRespect was mingled with surprise,And the stern joy which warriors feelIn foemen worthy of their steel.Short space he stood, then waved his hand:Down sunk the disappearing band;Each warrior vanish'd where he stood,In broom or bracken, heath or wood;Sunk brand and spear and bended bow,In osiers pale and copses low;It seem'd as if their mother EarthHad swallow'd up her warlike birth.The wind's last breath had toss'd in air,Pennon, and plaid, and plumage fair,--The next but swept a lone hill-side,Where heath and fern were waving wide:The sun's last glance was glinted back,From spear and glaive, from targe and jack,--The next, all unreflected, shoneOn bracken green, and cold grey stone.
XIThe witness that his sight received;Such apparition well might seemDelusion of a dreadful dream.Sir Roderick in suspense he eyed,And to his look the Chief replied,"Fear nought--nay, that I need not say--But--doubt not aught from mine array.Thou art my guest;--I pledged my wordAs far as Coilantogle ford:Nor would I call a clansman's brandFor aid against one valiant hand,Though on our strife lay every valeRent by the Saxon from the Gael.So move we on;--I only meantTo show the reed on which you leant,Deeming this path you might pursueWithout a pass from Roderick Dhu."They moved:--I said Fitz-James was brave,As ever knight that belted glaive;Yet dare not say, that now his bloodKept on its wont and temper'd flood,As, following Roderick's stride, he drewThat seeming lonesome pathway through,Which yet, by fearful proof, was rifeWith lances, that, to take his life,Waited but signal from a guide,So late dishonour'd and defied.Ever, by stealth, his eye sought roundThe vanish'd guardians of the ground,And still, from copse and heather deep,Fancy saw spear and broadsword peep,And in the plover's shrilly strain,The signal-whistle heard again.Nor breathed he free till far behindThe pass was left; for then they windAlong a wide and level green,Where neither tree nor tuft was seen,Nor rush nor bush of broom was near,To hide a bonnet or a spear.
XIIAnd reach'd that torrent's sounding shoreWhich, daughter of three mighty lakes,From Vennachar in silver breaks,Sweeps through the plain, and ceaseless minesOn Bochastle the mouldering lines,Where Rome, the Empress of the world,Of yore her eagle wings unfurl'd.And here his course the Chieftain staid,Threw down his target and his plaid,And to the Lowland warrior said:--"Bold Saxon! to his promise just,Vich-Alpine has discharged his trust.This murderous Chief, this ruthless man,This head of a rebellious clan,Hath led thee safe, through watch and ward,Far past Clan-Alpine's outmost guard.Now man to man, and steel to steel,A Chieftain's vengeance thou shalt feel.See here, all vantageless I stand,Arm'd, like thyself, with single brand:For this is Coilantogle ford,And thou must keep thee with thy sword."--
XIIIWhen foeman bade me draw my blade;Nay more, brave Chief, I vow'd thy death:Yet sure thy fair and generous faith,And my deep debt for life preserved,A better meed have well deserved:Can nought but blood our feud atone?Are there no means?"--"No, Stranger, none!And hear,--to fire thy flagging zeal,--The Saxon cause rests on thy steel;For thus spoke Fate, by prophet bredBetween the living and the dead:'Who spills the foremost foeman's life,His party conquers in the strife.' "--"Then, by my word," the Saxon said,"The riddle is already read.Seek yonder brake beneath the cliff,--There lies Red Murdoch, stark and stiff.Thus Fate has solved her prophecy,Then yield to Fate, and not to me.To James, at Stirling, let us go,When, if thou wilt be still his foe,Or if the King shall not agreeTo grant thee grace and favour free,I plight mine honour, oath, and word,That, to thy native strengths restored,With each advantage shalt thou stand,That aids thee now to guard thy land."
XIV"Soars thy presumption, then, so high,Because a wretched kern ye slew,Homage to name to Roderick Dhu?He yields not, he, to man nor Fate!Thou add'st but fuel to my hate:--My clansman's blood demands revenge.Not yet prepared?--By heaven, I changeMy thought, and hold thy valour lightAs that of some vain carpet knight,Who ill deserved my courteous care,And whose best boast is but to wearA braid of his fair lady's hair."----"I thank thee, Roderick, for the word!It nerves my heart, it steels my sword;For I have sworn this braid to stainIn the best blood that warms thy vein.Now, truce, farewell! and, ruth, begone!--Yet think not that by thee alone,Proud Chief! can courtesy be shown;Though not from copse, or heath, or cairn,Start at my whistle clansmen stern,On this small horn one feeble blastWould fearful odds against thee cast.But fear not--doubt not--which thou wilt--We try this quarrel hilt to hilt."Then each at once his falchion drew,Each on the ground his scabbard threw,Each look'd to sun, and stream, and plain,As what they ne'er might see again;Then foot, and point, and eye opposed,In dubious strife they darkly closed.
XVThat on the field his targe he threw,Whose brazen studs and tough bull-hideHad death so often dash'd aside;For, train'd abroad his arms to wield,Fitz-James's blade was sword and shield.He practised every pass and ward,To thrust, to strike, to feint, to guard;While less expert, though stronger far,The Gael maintain'd unequal war.Three times in closing strife they stood,And thrice the Saxon blade drank blood;No stinted draught, no scanty tide,The gushing flood the tartans dyed.Fierce Roderick felt the fatal drain,And shower'd his blows like wintry rain;And, as firm rock, or castle-roof,Against the winter shower is proof,The foe, invulnerable still,Foil'd his wild rage by steady skill;Till, at advantage ta'en, his brandForced Roderick's weapon from his hand,And backward borne upon the lea,Brought the proud Chieftain to his knee.
XVIThe world, thy heart's blood dyes my blade!"--"Thy threats, thy mercy, I defy!Let recreant yield, who fears to die."--Like adder darting from his coil,Like wolf that dashes through the toil,Like mountain-cat who guards her young,Full at Fitz-James's throat he sprung;Received, but reck'd not of a wound,And lock'd his arms his foeman round.--Now, gallant Saxon, hold thine own!No maiden's hand is round thee thrown!That desperate grasp thy frame might feel,Through bars of brass and triple steel!--They tug, they strain! down, down they go,The Gael above, Fitz-James below.The Chieftain's gripe his throat compress'd,His knee was planted in his breast;His clotted locks he backward threw,Across his brow his hand he drew,From blood and mist to clear his sight,Then gleam'd aloft his dagger bright!----But hate and fury ill suppliedThe stream of life's exhausted tide,And all too late the advantage came,To turn the odds of deadly game;For, while the dagger gleam'd on high,Reel'd soul and sense, reel'd brain and eye.Down came the blow! but in the heathThe erring blade found bloodless sheath.The struggling foe may now unclaspThe fainting Chief's relaxing grasp;Unwounded from the dreadful close,But breathless all, Fitz-James arose.
