XXII.

Marvelled Sir David of the Mount; Then, learned in story, ’gan recount Such chance had happed of old, When once, near Norham, there did fight A spectre fell of fiendish might, In likeness of a Scottish knight, With Brian Bulmer bold, And trained him nigh to disallow The aid of his baptismal vow. “And such a phantom, too, ’tis said, With Highland broadsword, targe, and plaid, And fingers red with gore, Is seen in Rothiemurcus glade, Or where the sable pine-trees shade Dark Tomantoul, and Auchnaslaid, Dromunchty, or Glenmore. And yet whate’er such legends say, Of warlike demon, ghost, or fay, On mountain, moor, or plain, Spotless in faith, in bosom bold, True son of chivalry should hold These midnight terrors vain; For seldom hath such spirit power To harm, save in the evil hour, When guilt we meditate within, Or harbour unrepented sin.” Lord Marmion turned him half aside, And twice to clear his voice he tried, Then pressed Sir David’s hand— But nought at length in answer said, And here their farther converse stayed, Each ordering that his band Should bowne them with the rising day, To Scotland’s camp to take their way— Such was the King’s command.