They tug, they strain; down, down they go,
The Gael above, Fitz-James below!
The Chieftain’s gripe 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!
Scott, The Lady of the Lake
(4) While thus they spake, the angelic caravan,