“’Part we in friendship from your land;
      And, noble Earl, receive my hand.’—­
      But Douglas round him drew his cloak,
      Folded his arms, and thus he spoke:—­
     ’My manors, halls, and bowers, shall still
      Be open, at my sovereign’s will,
      To each one who he lists, howe’er
      Unmeet to be the owner’s peer. 
      My castles are my King’s alone,
      From turret to foundation-stone—­
      The hand of Douglas is his own;
      And never shall in friendly grasp,
      The hand of such as Marmion clasp.’”—­

     “Burn’d Marmion’s swarthy cheek like fire,
      And shook his very frame for ire,
        And,—­’This to me!’ he said,—­
     ’An ’twere not for thy hoary beard,
      Such hand as Marmion’s had not spared
        To cleave the Douglas’ head! 
      And, first, I tell thee, haughty peer,
      He, who does England’s message here,
      Although the meanest in her state,
      May well, proud Angus, be thy mate: 
        Even in thy pitch of pride,
      Here in thy hold, thy vassals near—­
        I tell thee, thou’rt defied! 
      And if thou said’st, I am not peer
      To any lord in Scotland here,
        Lord Angus, thou hast lied!’
      On the Earl’s cheek, a flush of rage
      O’ercame the ashen hue of age: 
      Fierce he broke forth,—­And dare’st thou then
      To beard the lion in his den,
        The Douglas in his hall? 
      And hop’st thou thence unscathed to go?—­Up
      drawbridge, grooms—­what, Warder, ho! 
        Let the portcullis fall.’ 
      Lord Marmion turned—­well was his need,
      And dash’d the rowels in his steed.”

A swallow does not more lightly skim the air, than Marmion’s steed flew along the drawbridge.  The man drew rein when he had reached the train, turned, clenched his fists, shouted defiance, and shook his gauntlet at the towers where so lately he had been a guest.

“To horse! to horse!” cried Douglas.  “Let the chase be up.”  Then relenting, he smiled bitterly, saying, “He came a royal messenger.  Bold can he talk and fairly ride, and I doubt not he will fight well.”

Slowly the Earl sought the castle walls, that frowned still more gloomily, no longer brightened by the young and beautiful Lady Clare.

As the day wore on, Marmion’s passion wore off, and scanning his little band, he missed the Palmer.  From young Blount he demanded an explanation of the guide’s absence.

“The Palmer, in good sooth, parted from Douglas at dawn of day.  If a Palmer he is, he set out in strange guise,” replied the youth.

“What mean you?” quickly demanded Marmion.