He would be thinking, too, as he lay by the babbling brook, of the wars and dangers that in years to come would fall upon his country. And those who hearkened to the woes he uttered found that the words of True Thomas never failed to come to pass.
Seven long years passed away since Thomas had parted from the Elfland Queen, and yet another seven.
War had raged here and there throughout the land, when on a time it chanced that the Scottish army encamped close to the castle of Ercildoune where Thomas the Rhymer dwelt.
It was a time of truce, and Thomas wished to give a feast to the gallant soldiers who had been fighting for their country.
Thus it was that the doors of the old castle were flung wide, and noise and laughter filled the banquet-hall. Merry were the tales, loud the jests, bright the minstrel strains that night in the castle of Ercildoune.
But when the feast was over Thomas himself arose, the harp he had brought from Elfland in his hand, and a hush fell upon the throng, upon lords and ladies, and upon rough armed men.
The cheeks of rugged warriors that day were wet ere ever Thomas ceased to sing. Nor ever in the years to come did those who heard forget the magic of his song.
Night fell, those who had feasted had gone to rest, when in the bright moonlight a strange sight was seen by the village folk.
Along the banks of the Leader there paced side by side a hart and a hind, each white, white as newly fallen snow.
Slowly and with stately steps they moved, nor were they affrighted by the crowd which gathered to gaze at them.