Then we bewail the woeful fanaticism that turned their camp into a school of wrangling polemics, thus forestalling their ignommious and irretrievable disaster at Bothwell Bride—a defeat which Clavenhouse swore would redeem his disgrace in a tenfold measure at Drumclog. Or again we are transported into some sylvan retreat, and trip lightly among the sweet mountain harebells in the west with “The Lady of the Lake.” We watch the hunt as it dashes through the perilous defiles where the rocks in the mountain gorge seem
“As if an infant’s touch would urge
Their headlong passages down the verge.”
Or the blood tingles and the eye dilates with tremulous uncertainty as to the issue of the combat between Fitz James and Roderich Dhu. There is the subtle and agile Saxon loot to foot with the larger, but not less heroic gael; and when the latter goes down blinded with blood and fury, and falls fainting on the sod leaving his antagonist breathless but unscathed, we confess our sympathy is largely with the brave but unfortunate highlander, and feel sorry that he did not succeed in giving the gay and lordly Fitz a refreshing diff with his dagger before he fainted and fell. Then the scene changes and we are with Marmion where “Day, sets on Normans castled steep, and Cheviot’s mountains lone,” we follow the gloomy spirit through its conflicts, its sorrows and its crimes, and watch the last tragic scene of his eventful history.
The battle is raging over the pain and Marmion is dragged out of it wounded, but his fiery spirit unsubdued. The priest is near him with his consolations, and better still the tender angelic ministries of a wronged but forgiving woman.
“With fruitless labor bound
And strove to staunch each flowing wound
The Monk with unavailing cares
Exhausted all the Church’s prayers,