And so we take leave of the high castle on the hill, with the lady, her youngest son, and Fairly fair, in it, and follow the old lord and his other three sons over the moors and through the glens as they ride to the rendezvous. On their way they encounter a wounded knight, lying on the ground and making a heavy moan:— “‘Here maun I lie, here maun I die, By treachery’s false guiles; Witless I was that e’er gave faith To wicked woman’s smiles.’” Hardyknute, stopping, comforts him; says that, if he can but mount his steed and manage to get to his castle on the hill, he will be tended there by his lady and Fairly fair herself; and offers to detach some of his men with him for convoy. “With smileless look and visage wan The wounded knicht replied: ‘Kind chieftain, your intent pursue, For here I maun abide. ‘To me nae after day nor nicht Can e’er be sweet or fair; But soon, beneath some drapping tree, Cauld death sail end my care.’” Farther pleading by Hardyknute avails nothing; and, as time presses, he has to depart, leaving the wounded knight, so far as we can see, on the ground as he had found him, still making his moan. Then, after farther riding over a great region, called vaguely Lord Chattan’s land, we have the arrival of Hardyknute and his three sons in the King of Scotland’s camp, minstrels marching before them playing pibrochs. Hardly have they been welcomed when the battle with the Norse King and his host is begun. It is described at considerable length, and with much power, though confusedly, so that one hardly knows who is speaking or who is wounded amid the whirr of arrows, the shouting, and the clash of armour. One sees, however, Hardyknute and two of his sons fighting grandly in the pell-mell. At last it is all over, and we know that the Norse King and his host have been routed, and that Scotland has been saved. “In thraws of death, with wallert cheek, All panting on the plain, The fainting corps of warriors lay, Ne’er to arise again: Ne’er to return to native land; Nae mair wi’ blythesome sounds To boist the glories of the day And shaw their shinand wounds. On Norway’s coast the widowed dame May wash the rock with tears, May lang look ower the shipless seas, Before her mate appears. Cease, Emma, cease to hope in vain: Thy lord lies in the clay; The valiant Scats nae reivers thole To carry life away.