XVII.

’He stepp’d before the Monarch’s chair,
And stood with rustic plainness there,
And little reverence made; 340
Nor head, nor body, bow’d nor bent,
But on the desk his arm he leant,
  And words like these he said,
In a low voice,—­but never tone
So thrill’d through vein, and nerve, and bone:—­
“My mother sent me from afar, 346
Sir King, to warn thee not to war,—­
  Woe waits on thine array;
If war thou wilt, of woman fair,
Her witching wiles and wanton snare, 350
James Stuart, doubly warn’d, beware: 
  God keep thee as He may!”—­
    The wondering monarch seem’d to seek
      For answer, and found none;
    And when he raised his head to speak, 355
      The monitor was gone. 
The Marshal and myself had cast
To stop him as he outward pass’d;
But, lighter than the whirlwind’s blast,
  He vanish’d from our eyes, 360
Like sunbeam on the billow cast,
  That glances but, and dies.’

XVIII.

  While Lindesay told his marvel strange,
    The twilight was so pale,
  He mark’d not Marmion’s colour change, 365
    While listening to the tale: 
  But, after a suspended pause,
  The Baron spoke:—­’Of Nature’s laws
    So strong I held the force,
  That never superhuman cause 370
    Could e’er control their course;
And, three days since, had judged your aim
Was but to make your guest your game. 
But I have seen, since past the Tweed,
What much has changed my sceptic creed, 375
And made me credit aught.’—­He staid,
And seem’d to wish his words unsaid: 
But, by that strong emotion press’d,
Which prompts us to unload our breast,
  Even when discovery’s pain, 380
To Lindesay did at length unfold
The tale his village host had told,
  At Gifford, to his train. 
Nought of the Palmer says he there,
And nought of Constance, or of Clare; 385
The thoughts, which broke his sleep, he seems
To mention but as feverish dreams.

XIX.

‘In vain,’ said he, ’to rest I spread
My burning limbs, and couch’d my head: 
  Fantastic thoughts return’d; 390
And, by their wild dominion led,
  My heart within me burn’d. 
So sore was the delirious goad,
I took my steed, and forth I rode,
And, as the moon shone bright and cold, 395
Soon reach’d the camp upon the wold. 
The southern entrance I pass’d through,
And halted, and my bugle blew. 
Methought an answer met my ear,—­
Yet was the blast so low and drear, 400
So hollow, and so faintly blown,
It might be echo of my own.