Chapter 15

'What think I of him?—woe the while That brought such wanderer to our isle! Thy father's battle-brand, of yore For Tine-man forged by fairy lore, What time he leagued, no longer foes His Border spears with Hotspur's bows, Did, self-unscabbarded, foreshow The footstep of a secret foe. If courtly spy hath harbored here, What may we for the Douglas fear? What for this island, deemed of old Clan-Alpine's last and surest hold? If neither spy nor foe, I pray What yet may jealous Roderick say?— Nay, wave not thy disdainful head! Bethink thee of the discord dread That kindled when at Beltane game Thou least the dance with Malcolm Graeme; Still, though thy sire the peace renewed Smoulders in Roderick's breast the feud: Beware!—But hark! what sounds are these? My dull ears catch no faltering breeze No weeping birch nor aspens wake, Nor breath is dimpling in the lake; Still is the canna's hoary beard, Yet, by my minstrel faith, I heard— And hark again! some pipe of war Sends the hold pibroch from afar.'