XII.
The Chief in silence strode before,
And reach’d that torrent’s sounding shore,
Which, daughter of three mighty lakes,[287]
From Vennachar in silver breaks,
Sweeps through the plain, and ceaseless mines
On Bochastle the moldering lines,
Where Rome, the Empress of the world,
Of yore her eagle[288] wings unfurl’d.
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[289] I stand,
Arm’d, like thyself, with single brand:
For this is Coilantogle ford,
And thou must keep thee with thy sword.”