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XXV.

Full oft the rescued boy she kissed,
And often pressed him to her breast;
For, under all her dauntless show,
Her heart had throbbed at every blow;
Yet not Lord Cranstoun deigned she greet
Though low he kneeled at her feet.
Me lists not tell what words were made,
What Douglas, Home, and Howard said—

—For Howard was a generous foe— And how the clan united prayed,

The Ladye would the feud forego, And deign to bless the nuptial hour Of Cranstoun's Lord and Teviot's Flower.

XXVI.

She looked to river, looked to hill,
Thought on the Spirit's prophecy,

Then broke her silence stern and still,—
"Not you, but Fate, has vanquished me;
Their influence kindly stars may shower
On Teviot's tide and Branksome's tower,

For pride is quelled, and love is free."
She took fair Margaret by the hand,
Who, breathless, trembling, scarce might stand;

That hand to Cranstoun's lord gave she :—
"As I am true to thee and thine,
Do thou be true to me and mine!

This clasp of love our bond shall be;
For this is your betrothing day,
And all these noble lords shall stay,

To grace it with their company."

XXVII.
All as they left the listed plain,
Much of the story she did gain;
How Cranstoun fought with Deloraine,
And of his Page, and of the Book,
Which from the wounded knight he took;

And how he sought her castle high,

That morn, by help of gramarye;

How, in Sir William's armour (light.

Stolen by his Page, while slept the knight,

He took on him the single fight.

But half his tale he left unsaid,

And lingered till he joined the maid.—

Cared not the Ladye to betray

Her mystic arts in view of day;

But well she thought, ere midnight came,

Of that strange Page the pride to tame,

From his foul hands the Book to save,

And send it back to Michael's grave.—

Needs not to tell each tender word

'Twixt Margaret and 'twixt Cranstoun's lord

Nor how she told of former woes,

And how her bosom fell and rose,

While he and Musgrave bandied blows.—

Needs not these lovers'joys to tell;

One day, fair maids, you'll know them well.

xxvni.

William of Deloraine, some chance
Had wakened from his deathlike trance;

And taught that, in the listed plain,
Another, in his arms and shield,
Against fierce Musgrave axe did wield,

Under the name of Deloraine. Hence, to the field, unarmed, he ran, And hence his presence scared the clan, Who held him for some fleeting wraith *, And not a man of blood and breath. Not much this new ally he loved, Yet, when he saw what hap had proved,

He greeted him right heartilie: He would not waken old debate, For he was void of rancorous hate, Though rude and scant of courtesy; In raids he spilt but seldom blood, Unless when men at arms withstood,"

* The spectral apparition of a living person.

Or, as was meet, for deadly feud.
He ne'er bore grudge for stalwart blow,
Ta'en in fair fight from gallant foe:
And so"'twas seen of him, e'en now,

When on dead Musgrave he looked down;
Grief darkened on his rugged brow,
Though half disguised with a frown;
And thus, while sorrow bent his head,
His foeman's epitaph he made.

XXIX.

"Now, Richard Musgrave, liest thou here!

I ween, my deadly enemy; For, if I slew thy brother dear,

Thou slewest a sister's son to me: And when I lay in dungeon dark,

Of Naworth Castle, long months three, Till ransomed for a thousand mark,

Dark Musgrave, it was long of thee.

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