Midst rocks and forests drear.
But where that cross in yonder shade
Oft bends the pilgrim’s knee,
There sleep the gentle knight and maid
Beneath their trysting tree.
When the musician had finished, Sir Patrick Hepborne still continued to loiter with his arm on the balustrade of the stair, when the door opened, and he heard a feeble step on the terrace above. He looked upwards, and the light of a lamp that was burning in a niche fell on the aged countenance of a man who was descending. It was Adam of Gordon.
“Adam of Gordon!” exclaimed Sir Patrick.
“And who is he, I pray, who doth know Adam of Gordon so far from home?” demanded the minstrel. “Ah, Sir Patrick Hepborne; holy St. Cuthbert, I do rejoice to see thee. Trust me, the ready help thou didst yield me at Forres hath not been forgotten; though thou didst sorely mar my verses by thine interruption. Full many sithes have I tried to awaken that noble subject, but the witchery of inspiration is past, and——”
“But how camest thou here?” demanded Hepborne, impatiently interrupting him.
“Sir Knight, I came hither with a lady from the Borders,” said Adam, hesitatingly; “a lady that——”