He lighted the match of his bandelier*, The mischief that the urchin made; That the young Baron was possessed! XXII. Well I ween, the charm he held The noble Ladye had soon dispelled; But she was deeply busied then To tend the wounded Deloraine. Much she wondered to find him lie, On the stone threshold stretched along; She thought some spirit of the sky Had done the bold moss-trooper wrong; Because, despite her precept dread, Perchance he in the Book had read; * Bandelier, belt for carrying ammunition. But the broken lance in his bosom stood, And it was earthly steel and wood. XXIII. She drew the splinter from the wound, And with a charm she staunched the blood; She bade the gash be cleansed and bound. And washed it from the clotted gore, And salved the splinter o'er and o'er. William of Deloraine, in trance, Whene'er she turned it round and round, Twisted, as if she galled his wound. Then to her maidens she did say, That he should be whole man and sound, Within the course of a night and day. Full long she toiled; for she did rue Mishap to friend so stout and true. 91 XXIV. So passed the day :—the evening fell, "Twas near the time of curfew bell; The air was mild, the wind was calm, The stream was smooth, the dew was balm ; E'en the rude watchman, on the tower, Enjoyed and blessed the lovely hour. Far more fair Margaret loved and blessed The hour of silence and of rest. On the high turret sitting lone, She waked at times the lute's soft tone; Touched a wild note, and all between For lovers love the western star. XXV. Is yon the star, o'er Penchryst Pen, That rises slowly to her ken, 92 And, spreading broad its wavering light, Shakes its loose tresses on the night? Is yon red glare the western star?— O, 'tis the beacon-blaze of war! Scarce could she draw her tightened breath; For well she knew the fire of death! XXVI. The Warder viewed it blazing strong, Full many a torch and cresset glared; Like reeds beside a frozen brook. XXVII. The Seneschal, whose silver hair Was reddened by the torches' glare, And issued forth his mandates loud. "On Penchryst glows a bale* of fire, And three are kindling on Priesthaughswire; Ride out, ride out, The foe to scout! Mount, mount for Branksome†, every man! Thou, Todrig, warn the Johnstone clan, That ever are true and stout. Ye need not send to Liddesdale; For, when they see the blazing bale, Our kin, and clan, and friends, to raise." *Bale, beacon-faggot. † Mount for Branksome was the gathering word of the Scotts. |