For thee—for me, perchance—’twere well
We ne’er had seen the Trosachs’ dell.—
Murdoch, move first—but silently;
Whistle or whoop, and thou shalt die!”
Jealous and sullen, on they fared,
Each silent, each upon his guard.
XXI.
Now wound the path its dizzy ledge
Around a precipice’s edge,
When lo! a wasted female form,