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And here his course the Chieftain stayed,
Threw down his target and his plaid,
And to the Lowland warrior said:-
"Bold Saxon! to his promise just,
Vich-Alpine has discharged his trust.
This murderous chief, this ruthless man,
This head of a rebellious clan,

Hath led thee safe, through watch and ward,
Far past Clan-Alpine's outmost guard.
Now, man to man, and steel to steel,
A Chieftain's vengeance thou shalt feel!
See here, all 'vantageless I stand,
Armed, like thyself, with single brand;
For this is Coilantogle ford,

And thou must keep thee with thy sword!"
The Saxon paused:-"I ne'er delayed,
When foeman bade me draw my blade;
Nay, more, brave Chief, I vowed thy death;
Yet sure, thy fair and generous faith,
And my deep debt for life preserved,
A better meed have well deserved :-
Can nought but blood or feud atone?

Are there no means?"-" No, stranger, none;
And hear,-to fire thy flagging zeal,-
The Saxon cause rests on thy steel;
For thus spoke Fate, by prophet bred
Between the living and the dead,
'Who spills the foremost foeman's life,
His party conquers in the strife.'”

"Then, by my word," the Saxon said, "The riddle is already read.

Seek yonder brake beneath the cliff

There lies Red Murdock, stark and stiff.

Thus Fate hath solved her prophecy,

Then yield to Fate, and not to me.'

Dark lightning flashed from Roderick's eye

"Soars thy presumption then so high,

Because a wretched kern ye slew,

Homage to name to Roderick Dhu ?

DEATH OF RODERICK DHU.

He yields not, he, to man-nor Fate!
Thou add'st but fuel to my hate:
My clansman's blood demands revenge!-
Not yet prepared?-Saxon! I change
My thought, and hold thy valour light
As that of some vain carpet-knight,
Who ill-deserved my courteous care,
And whose best boast is but to wear
A braid of his fair lady's hair."

"I thank thee, Roderick, for the word:
It nerves my heart, it steels my sword;
For I have sworn this braid to stain
In the best blood that warms thy vein.
Now, truce, farewell! and ruth, begone!—
Yet think not that by thee alone,
Proud Chief! ean courtesy be shown.
Though not from copse, or heath, or cairn,
Start at my whistle clansmen stern,
Of this small horn one feeble blast
Would fearful odds against thee cast.
But fear not-doubt not-which thou wilt-
We try this quarrel hilt to hilt!"

Then each at once his falchion drew,
Each on the ground his scabbard threw,
Each looked to sun, and stream, and plain,
As what he ne'er might see again,
Then foot, and point, and eye opposed,
In dubious strife they darkly closed!

Three times in closing strife they stood,
And thrice the Saxon blade drank blood;
No stinted draught, no scanty tide,
The gushing flood the tartans dyed.
Fierce Roderick felt the fatal drain,
And showered his blows like wintry rain;
And, as firm rock, or castle roof,
Against the winter-shower is proof,
The foe, invulnerable still,

Foiled his wild rage by steady skill;
Till, at advantage ta'en, his brand
Forced Roderick's weapon from his hand,

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And, backwards borne upon the lea,
Brought the proud Chieftain to his knee.
"Now yield thee, or by Him who made
The world, thy heart's blood dyes my blade!"
"Thy threats, thy mercy, I defy!
Let recreant yield, who fears to die."
Like adder darting from his coil,
Like wolf that dashes through the toil,
Like mountain-cat that guards her young,
Full at Fitz-James's throat he sprung;
Received, but recked not of a wound,
And locked his arms his foeman round.
Now, gallant Saxon, hold thine own!
No maiden's hand is round thee thrown!
That desperate grasp thy frame might feel,
Through bars of brass and triple steel!
They tug, they strain!-down, down, they go,
The Gael above, Fitz-James below.

The Chieftain's grip his throat compressed,
His knee was planted on his breast;
His clotted locks he backward threw,
Across his brow his hand he drew,
From blood and mist to clear his sight,
Then gleamed aloft his dagger bright!—
But hate and fury ill supplied
The stream of life's exhausted tide,
And all too late the advantage came
To turn the odds of deadly game;
For, while the dagger gleamed on high,
Reeled soul and sense, reeled brain and eye!
Down came the blow, but in the heath
The erring blade found bloodless sheath.
The struggling foe may now unclasp
The fainting Chief's relaxing grasp;
Unwounded from the dreadful close
But breathless all, Fitz-James arose.

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