And the traitor held his torch in the gap, All smoking and smouldering; And through the vapour and fire, beneath In the dark crypt's narrow ring, With a shout that pealed to the room's high roof They saw their naked King. Half naked he stood, but stood as one Who yet could do and dare; With the crown, the King was stript away-- The Knight was reft of his battle-array-- But still the Man was there. From the rout then stepped a villain forth-- Sir John Hall was his name: With a knife unsheathed he leapt to the vault Beneath the torchlight-flame. Of his person and stature was the King A man right manly strong, And mightily by the shoulderblades His foe to his feet he flung. Then the traitor's brother, Sir Thomas Hall, Sprang down to work his worst; And the King caught the second man by the neck And flung him above the first. And he smote and trampled them under him; And a long month thence they bare All black their throats with the grip of his hands When the hangman's hand came there. And sore he strove to have had their knives, But the sharp blades gashed his hands. Oh James! so armed, thou hadst battled there Till help had come of thy bands; And oh! once more thou hadst held our throne And ruled thy Scotish lands! But while the King o'er his foes still raged With a heart that naught could tame, Another man sprange down to the crypt; And with his sword in his hand hard-gripp'd, There stood Sir Robert Græme. (Now shame on the recreant traitor's heart Who durst not face his King Till the body unarmed was wearied out With two-fold combating! Ah! well might the people sing and say, As oft ye have heard aright: "_O Robert Græme, O Robert Græme, Who slew our King, God give thee shame!_" For he slew him not as a knight.) And the naked King turned round at bay, But his strength had passed the goal, And he could but gasp: "Mine hour is come; But oh! to succour thine own soul's doom, Let a priest now shrive my soul!" And the traitor looked on the King's spent strength And said: "Have I kept my word? Yea, King, the mortal pledge that I gave? No black friar's shrift thy soul shall have, But the shrift of this red sword!" With that he smote his King through the breast; And all they three in the pen Fell on him and stabbed and stabbed him there Like merciless murderous men Yet seemed it now that Sir Robert Græme, Ere the King's last breath was o'er, Turned sick at heart with the deadly sight And would have done no more. But a cry came from the troop above: "If him thou do not slay, The price of his life that thou dost spare Thy forfeit life shall pay!"