XVIII.

Leave we these revels now, to tell What to Saint Hilda’s maids befell, Whose galley, as they sailed again To Whitby, by a Scot was ta’en. Now at Dunedin did they bide, Till James should of their fate decide; And soon, by his command, Were gently summoned to prepare To journey under Marmion’s care, As escort honoured, safe, and fair, Again to English land. The Abbess told her chaplet o’er, Nor knew which saint she should implore; For when she thought of Constance, sore She feared Lord Marmion’s mood. And judge what Clara must have felt! The sword that hung in Marmion’s belt Had drunk De Wilton’s blood. Unwittingly, King James had given, As guard to Whitby’s shades, The man most dreaded under heaven By these defenceless maids: Yet what petition could avail, Or who would listen to the tale Of woman, prisoner, and nun, ’Mid bustle of a war begun? They deemed it hopeless to avoid The convoy of their dangerous guide.