Part 37 (1/2)

Black rise the hills round the vale of Glenco; Hard rise its rocks up the sides of the sky; Cold fall the streams from the snow on their summits; Bitter are the winds that search for the wanderer; False are the vapours that trail o'er the correi Blacker than caverns that hollow the mountain, Harder than crystals in the rock's bosom Colder than ice borne down in the torrents, More bitter than hail windswept o'er the correi, Falser than vapours that hide the dark precipice, Is the heart of the Campbell, the h.e.l.l hound Glenlyon.

Is it blood that is streaming down into the valley?

Ha! 'tis the red coated blood hounds of Orange.

To hunt the red deer, is this a fit season?

Glenlyon, said Ian, the son of the chieftain: What seek ye with guns and with gillies so many?

Friends, a warm fire, good cheer, and a drink, Said the liar of h.e.l.l, with the death in his heart.

Come home to my house--it is poor, but your own.

Cheese of the goat, and flesh of black cattle, And dew of the mountain to make their hearts joyful, They gave them in plenty, they gave them with welcome; And they slept on the heather, and skins of the red deer.

Och hone for the chief! G.o.d's curse on the traitors!

Och hone for the chief--the father of his people!

He is struck through the brain, and not in the battle!

Och hone for his lady! the teeth of the badgers Have torn the bright rings from her slender fingers!

They have stripped her and shamed her in sight of her clansmen!

They have sent out her ghost to cry after her husband.

Nine men did Glenlyon slay, nine of the true hearts!

His own host he slew, the laird of Inverriggen.

Fifty they slew--the rest fled to the mountains.

In the deep snow the women and children Fell down and slept, nor awoke in the morning.

The bard of the glen, alone among strangers, Allister, bard of the glen and the mountain, Sings peace to the ghost of his father's father, Slain by the curse of Glenco, Glenlyon.

Curse on Glenlyon! His wife's fair bosom Dry up with weeping the fates of her children!

Curse on Glenlyon! Each drop of his heart's blood Turn to red fire and hum through his arteries!

The pale murdered faces haunt him to madness!

The shrieks of the ghosts from the mists of Glenco Ring in his ears through the caves of perdition!

Man, woman, and child, to the last born Campbell, Rush howling to h.e.l.l, and fall cursing Glenlyon-- The liar who drank with his host and then slew him!

While he chanted, the whole being of the bard seemed to pour itself out in the feeble and quavering tones that issued from his withered throat. His voice grew in energy for a while as he proceeded, but at last gave way utterly under the fervour of imprecation, and ceased.

Then, as if in an agony of foiled hate, he sent from chanter and drone a perfect screech of execration, with which the instrument dropped from his hands, and he fell back in his chair, speechless.

Lady Florimel started to her feet, and stood trembling for a moment, hesitating whether to run from the cottage and call for help, or do what she might for the old man herself. But the next moment he came to himself, saying, in a tone of a.s.sumed composure:

”You'll pe knowing now, my laty, why she'll pe hating ta very name of Clenlyon.”

”But it was not your grandfather that Glenlyon killed, Mr MacPhail --was it?”

”And whose grandfather would it pe then, my lady?” returned Duncan, drawing himself up.