With thine accustom’d dearth of praise,
It comes from no weak mortal bard—
’Tis Scotland’s spirit claims the lays!
Perfectly refreshed by her slumber, and cheered by the harper’s strains, the lady arose from her couch, and stepped forth from the cavern to join her applause to the rudely-expressed approbation of Rory and his comrades. The air was balmy and refreshing, and she staid to hold converse with the good old minstrel.
“’Tis a beautiful night, Adam,” said she; “see how the moonbeam sleeps on the bosom of yonder little lake far up the pass. How dark do these masses of pine appear when contrasted with the silver light that doth play beyond them on those [[396]]opposite steeps; how deep and impenetrable is the shadow that hangeth over the bottom far below us, where all is silent save the softened music of the stream murmuring among the rocks. But hark, what yelling sounds are these that come borne on the breeze as it sigheth up the pass?”
“’Tis the distant howling of the wolves, lady,” cried the harper; “methinks the rout cometh this way. An I mistake not, ’tis a ravenous pack of famished beasts that do pursue a deer or some other helpless tenant of the woods. Hark, the sound doth now come full up the bottom of the pass. List, I pray thee, how it doth grow upon the ear.”
“I do hear the galloping of a horse, methinks,” cried Rory Spears, who stood by.
“Holy Virgin, what dreadful screams were these?” cried the lady, starting with affright.
“St. Andrew defend us,” said the minstrel, shrinking at the thought; “it may be some fiend o’ the forest that doth urge his hellish midnight chase through these salvage wilds.”
“Na, na, na,” replied Rory Spears, gravely; “troth, I hae mair fear that it may be some wildered wanderer hunted by a rout o’ thae gaunt and famished wolves. St. Lowry be wi’ us, is’t not awful?”