The train from out the castle drew, But Marmion stopped to bid adieu: “Though something I might ’plain,” he said, “Of cold respect to stranger guest, Sent hither by your King’s behest, While in Tantallon’s towers I stayed, Part we in friendship from your land, And, noble Earl, receive my hand.” But Douglas round him drew his cloak, Folded his arms, and thus he spoke: “My manors, halls, and bowers shall still Be open, at my Sovereign’s will, To each one whom he lists, howe’er Unmeet to be the owner’s peer. My castles are my King’s alone, From turret to foundation stone; The hand of Douglas is his own, And never shall, in friendly grasp, The hand of such as Marmion clasp.” Burned Marmion’s swarthy cheek like fire, And shook his very frame for ire; And “This to me,” he said, “An’ ’twere not for thy hoary beard, Such hand as Marmion’s had not spared To cleave the Douglas’ head! And, first, I tell thee, haughty peer, He, who does England’s message here, Although the meanest in her state, May well, proud Angus, be thy mate: And, Douglas, more, I tell thee here, Even in thy pitch of pride— Here, in thy hold, thy vassals near, I tell thee, thou’rt defied! And if thou said’st I am not peer To any lord in Scotland here, Lowland or Highland, far or near, Lord Angus, thou hast lied!” On the Earl’s cheek, the flush of rage O’ercame the ashen hue of age; Fierce he broke forth: “And dar’st thou then To beard the lion in his den, The Douglas in his hall? And hop’st thou hence unscathed to go? No, by Saint Bride of Bothwell, no! Up drawbridge, grooms—what, warder, ho! Let the portcullis fall.” Lord Marmion turned—well was his need, And dashed the rowels in his steed; Like arrow through the archway sprung; The ponderous grate behind him rung— To pass there was such scanty room, The bars, descending, razed his plume. The steed along the drawbridge flies, Just as it trembled on the rise; Nor lighter does the swallow skim Along the smooth lake’s level brim; And when Lord Marmion reached his band He halts, and turns with clinchéd hand And shout of loud defiance pours, And shook his gauntlet at the towers, “Horse! horse!” the Douglas cried, “and chase!” But soon he reined his fury’s pace: “A royal messenger he came, Though most unworthy of the name. Saint Mary mend my fiery mood! Old age ne’er cools the Douglas’ blood; I thought to slay him where he stood. ’Tis pity of him, too,” he cried; “Bold he can speak, and fairly ride— I warrant him a warrior tried.” With this his mandate he recalls, And slowly seeks his castle halls. NOTES AND QUESTIONS