XIV.

“Now, good Lord Marmion,” Heron says, “Of your fair courtesy, I pray you bide some little space In this poor tower with me. Here may you keep your arms from rust, May breathe your war-horse well; Seldom hath passed a week but just Or feat of arms befell: The Scots can rein a mettled steed, And love to couch a spear; St. George! a stirring life they lead, That have such neighbours near. Then stay with us a little space, Our Northern wars to learn; I pray you for your lady’s grace!” Lord Marmion’s brow grew stern.