XV.

The steed along the drawbridge flies, Just as it trembled on the rise; Nor lighter does the swallow skim Along the smooth lake’s level brim: And when Lord Marmion reached his band, He halts, and turns with clenchéd hand, And shout of loud defiance pours, And shook his gauntlet at the towers. “Horse! horse!” the Douglas cried, “and chase!” But soon he reined his fury’s pace: “A royal messenger he came, Though most unworthy of the name. A letter forged! Saint Jude to speed! Did ever knight so foul a deed! At first in heart it liked me ill, When the King praised his clerkly skill. Thanks to St. Bothan, son of mine, Save Gawain, ne’er could pen a line: So swore I, and I swear it still, Let my boy-bishop fret his fill. Saint Mary mend my fiery mood! Old age ne’er cools the Douglas blood, I thought to slay him where he stood. ’Tis pity of him, too,” he cried: “Bold can he speak, and fairly ride, I warrant him a warrior tried.” With this his mandate he recalls, And slowly seeks his castle halls.