To hear my plighted vow, love!”
“I’m happy now,” she faintly said,
“But, oh, ’tis cruel to sever!”—
Upon his breast her head she laid,
And closed her eyes for ever.
“Sir Page,” cried the Wolfe, at the close of this ballad, “by my knighthood, but thou dost sing and harp it better than Allan Stewart himself, though thy lays are something of the saddest. Meseems if thou didst ween that our mirth had waxed somewhat too high, and that it lacked a damper. In sooth,” continued he, turning to Hepborne with an arch look, “thou art much to be envied, Sir Patrick, for the possession of this lovely, this accomplished—ha! ha! ha!—this—this boy of thine—ha! ha! ha!—this Maurice de Grey.—Come, Maurice, my sweet youth,” said he, addressing the page, “essay again to tune thy throat, and let it, I beseech thee, be in a strain more jocund than the last. Here, quaff wine, boy, to give thee jollier heart.”
“Thanks, my noble Lord,” replied Maurice de Grey, “I will exert my poor powers to fulfil thy wishes without drinking.”
And, taking up the harp again, he ran his fingers nimbly over the strings, with great display of execution, in a sprightly prelude, enlivening his auditors, and preparing them to sympathize with something more in unison with the highly-screwed chords of the Earl’s heart, when he was suddenly interrupted by the appearance of a new personage.
A tall monk of the order of St. Francis suddenly entered, and, gliding like a spirit into the middle of the hall, darted [[243]]a pair of keen searching eyes towards the upper end of the festive board.
“What, ha! brother of St. Francis,” cried the Wolfe of Badenoch, “what wouldst thou? If thou be’st wayfaring, and need cheer, sit thee down there at the end of our festive board, and call for what thou lackest.”