XX.

Impatient of the silent horn,

Now on the gale her voice was borne: "Father!" she cried; the rocks around Loved to prolong the gentle sound. A while she paused, no answer came, "Malcolm, was thine the blast?" the name Less resolutely utter'd fell,

1

The echoes could not catch the swell.
"A stranger I," the Huntsman said,
Advancing from the hazel shade.
The maid, alarmed, with hasty oar,
Push'd her light shallop from the shore,
And when a space was gained between
Closer she drew her bosom's screen;
(So forth the startled swan would swing,2
So turn to prune his ruffled wing,)
Then safe, though flutter'd and amazed,
She paused, and on the stranger gazed.
Not his the form, nor his the eye,
That youthful maidens wont to fly.

1 MS.- A space she paused, no answer came, —
"Alpine, was thine the blast?" the name

Less resolutely utter'd fell,

The echoes could not catch the swell.
"Nor foe nor friend," the stranger said,

Advancing from the hazel shade.
The startled maid, with hasty oar,

Push'd her light shallop from the shore.

2 MS. -So o'er the lake the swan would spring, Then turn to prune its ruffled wing.

XXI.

On his bold visage middle age
Had slightly press'd its signet sage,
Yet had not quench'd the open truth
And fiery vehemence of youth;
Forward and frolic glee was there,
The will to do, the soul to dare,
The sparkling glance, soon blown to fire,
Of hasty love, or headlong ire.
His limbs were cast in manly mould,
For hardy sports or contest bold;
And though in peaceful garb array'd,
And weaponless, except his blade,
His stately mien as well implied
A high-born heart, a martial pride,
As if a Baron's crest he wore,

And sheathed in armor trode the shore.
Slighting the petty need he show'd,
He told of his benighted road;
His ready speech flow'd fair and free,
In phrase of gentlest courtesy ;
Yet seem'd that tone, and gesture bland,
Less used to sue than to command.

XXII.

A while the maid the stranger eyed,
And, reassured, at length replied,
That Highland halls were open still1

1 MS. Her father's hall was open still.

To wilder'd wanderers of the hill.
"Nor think you unexpected come
To yon lone isle, our desert home;
Before the heath had lost the dew,
This morn, a couch was pulled for you;
On yonder mountain's purple head
Have ptarmigan and heath-cock bled,
And our broad nets have swept the mere,
To furnish forth your evening cheer.".
"Now, by the rood, my lovely maid,
Your courtesy has err'd," he said;
"No right have I to claim, misplaced,
The welcome of expected guest.
A wanderer, here by fortune tost,
My way, my friends, my courser lost,
I ne'er before, believe me, fair,
Have ever drawn your mountain air,
Till on this lake's romantic strand,1
I found a fay in fairy land!"

XXIII.

"I well believe," the maid replied, As her light skiff approach'd the side,— "I well believe, that ne'er before Your foot has trod Loch Katrine's shore; But yet, as far as yesternight, Old Allan-bane foretold your plight, – A gray-hair'd sire, whose eye intent

1 MS. Till on the lake's enchanting strand.

Was on the vision'd future bent.1
He saw your steed, a dapple gray,
Lie dead beneath the birchen way;
Painted exact your form and mien,
Your hunting suit of Lincoln green,
That tassell'd horn so gaily gilt,

That falchion's crooked blade and hilt,
That cap with heron plumage trim,
And yon two hounds so dark and grim.
He bade that all should ready be,
To grace a guest of fair degree;
But light I held his prophecy,

And deem'd it was my father's horn,
Whose echoes o'er the lake were borne." -

1 MS.

XXIV.

The stranger smiled: —“Since to your home
A destined errant-knight I come,

Announced by prophet sooth and old,

Doom'd, doubtless, for achievement bold,
I'll lightly front each high emprise,
For one kind glance of those bright eyes.
Permit me, first, the task to guide
Your fairy frigate o'er the tide."
The maid, with smile suppress'd and sly,
The toil unwonted saw him try;

For seldom sure, if e'er before,

His noble hand had grasp'd an oar:

Is often on the future bent. .-See Appendix, Note A.

Yet with main strength his strokes he drew,1
And o'er the lake the shallop flew ;
With heads erect, and whimpering cry,
The hounds behind their passage ply.

Nor frequent does the bright oar break
The dark'ning mirror of the lake,
Until the rocky isle they reach,

And moor their shallop on the beach.

XXV.

The stranger view'd the shore around;
'Twas all so close with copsewood bound
Nor track nor pathway might declare
That human foot frequented there,
Until the mountain-maiden show'd
A clambering unsuspected road,
That winded through the tangled screen,
And open'd on a narrow green,
Where weeping birch and willow round
With their long fibres swept the ground.
Here, for retreat in dangerous hour,
Some chief had framed a rustic bower.2

1 MS. This gentle hand had grasp'd an oar: Yet with main strength the oars he drew.

2 The Celtic chieftains whose lives were continually exposed to peril, had usually, in the most retired spot of their domains, some place of retreat for the hour of necessity, which, as circumstances would admit, was a tower, a cavern, or a rustic hut, in a strong and secluded situation. One of these last gave refuge to the unfortunate Charles Edward, in his perilous wanderings after the battle of Culloden.