* * * * *

       The Chief in silence strode before,
       And reached that torrent’s sounding shore,
       Which, daughter of three mighty lakes,
       From Vennachar in silver breaks
       Sweeps through the plain, and ceaseless mines,
       On 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,
       Armed like thyself, with single brand: 
       For this is Coilantogle ford,
       And thou must keep thee with thy sword.” 
       The Saxon paused:—­“I ne’er delayed,
       When 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 bred
       Between 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 agree
       To 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.”—­
       Dark lightning flashed from Roderick’s eye—­
       “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 change
       My thought, and hold thy valour light
       As that of some vain carpet-knight,