Volume I Part 35 (2/2)
”The lank weed waves round thy domain, The fox creeps to thy gate; Dark is thy dwelling, proud chieftain, Thy halls are desolate!”
The legend we have thus rendered. His own idiom and versification, as we have already observed, were of a more unintelligible sort, though better suited, perhaps, to the fas.h.i.+on of the time and the capacity of his hearers.
But a gloom still pervaded the once cheerful hearth, and the night wore on without the usual symptoms of mirth and hilarity.
Holt of Grislehurst held the manorial rights, and was feudal lord over a widely-extended domain, the manor of Spotland descending to him by succession from his grandfather. His character was that of a quiet, unostentatious country gentleman; but withal of a proud spirit, not brooking either insult or neglect. This night, an unaccountable depression stole upon him. He strode rapidly across the chamber, moody and alone. The taper was nigh extinguished; the wasted billet grew pale, a few sparks starting up the chimney, as the wind roared in short and hasty gusts round the dwelling. The old family portraits seemed to flit from their dark panels, wavering with the tremulous motion of the blaze.
Holt was still pacing the chamber with a disturbed and agitated step. A few words, rapid and unconnected, fell from his lips.
”Rebel!--Outcast! I cannot betray thee!”
”Betray me!” echoed a voice from behind. Turning, the speaker stood before him. It was the athletic form of the stranger, wrapped in his grey cloak and cap of coa.r.s.e felt, plumed from the falcon's wing.
”And who speaks the word that shall betray me? A king,--a fugitive! Yet, not all the means that treachery can compa.s.s shall trammel one hair upon this brow without my privity or consent.”
”Comest thou like the sharp wind into my dwelling?” inquired Holt, in a voice tremulous with amazement.
”Free as the unconfined air; yet fettered by a lighter bond,--a woman's love!” returned the intruder. ”Thou hast a daughter.”
The Lord of Grislehurst grew pale at these words. Some terrific meaning clung to them. After a short pause the stranger continued:--
”Thus speak the legends of Tigernach, and the bards of Ulster, rapt into visions of the future:--'_When a king of Erin shall flee at the voice of a woman, then shall the distaff and spindle conquer whom the sword and buckler shall not subdue_.' That woman is yon heretic queen. A usurper, an intruder on our birthright. Never were the O'Neales conquered but by woman! I have lingered here when the war-cry hath rung from the sh.o.r.es of my country. Again the shout hath come, and the impatient chiefs wait for my return. But”----
The warrior seemed to writhe during the conflict. His hands were clenched, and every muscle stiffened with agony. Scorn at his own weakness, and dread, horrible undefinable dread, as he felt the omnipotent power mastering his proud spirit. The man who would have laughed at the shaking of a spear, and the loud rush of the battle, quailed before a woman's hate and a woman's love.
”And what is thy request to-night?” said Holt.
The stranger answered in a voice of thunder--
”Thy daughter!”
Tyrone, for it was he, seemed nigh choking with the emotion he sought to suppress.
”Nay,” he continued, ”it must not be. Oh! did I love her less, she had been mine!”
”Thine?” suddenly retorted her father, somewhat scornfully. ”And who gave thee this power over woman's spirit? Thou hast not even had speech of her, much less the means to win her favour.”
An almost supernatural expression seemed to gather on the features of the chieftain. His eye, rolling through the vista of past years, began to pause, appalled as it approached the dark threshold of the future. He appeared lost to the presence of surrounding objects, as he thus exclaimed with a terrific solemnity--
”When the dark-browed Norah nursed me on her lap, and her eye, though dark to outward sense, saw through the dim veil of destiny, it was thus she sung as she guarded my slumbers, and the hated Sa.s.senach was in the hall:--
”'Rest thee, baby! light and darkness Mingling o'er thy path shall play; Hope shall flee when thou pursuest, Lost amid life's trackless way.
”'Rest thee, baby! woman's breast Thou shalt darken o'er with woe; None thou lookest on or lovest, Joy or hope hereafter know.
Many a maid thy glance shall rue, Where it smites it shall subdue.'
”It was an evil hour, old man, when I looked upon thy daughter.”
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