“Why need my tongue the issue tell? We ran our course—my charger fell; What could he ’gainst the shock of hell? I rolled upon the plain. High o’er my head, with threatening hand, The spectre took his naked brand— Yet did the worst remain: My dazzled eyes I upward cast— Not opening hell itself could blast Their sight, like what I saw! Full on his face the moonbeam strook— A face could never be mistook! I knew the stern vindictive look, And held my breath for awe. I saw the face of one who, fled To foreign climes, has long been dead— I well believe the last; For ne’er, from vizor raised, did stare A human warrior, with a glare So grimly and so ghast. Thrice o’er my head he shook the blade; But when to good Saint George I prayed, The first time e’er I asked his aid, He plunged it in the sheath; And, on his courser mounting light, He seemed to vanish from my sight; The moonbeam drooped, and deepest night Sunk down upon the heath. ’Twere long to tell what cause I have To know his face, that met me there, Called by his hatred from the grave, To cumber upper air; Dead or alive, good cause had he To be my mortal enemy.” XXII. Marvelled Sir David of the Mount; Then, learned in story, ’gan recount Such chance had happed of old, When once, near Norham, there did fight A spectre fell of fiendish might, In likeness of a Scottish knight, With Brian Bulmer bold, And trained him nigh to disallow The aid of his baptismal vow. “And such a phantom, too, ’tis said, With Highland broadsword, targe, and plaid, And fingers red with gore, Is seen in Rothiemurcus glade, Or where the sable pine-trees shade Dark Tomantoul, and Auchnaslaid, Dromunchty, or Glenmore. And yet whate’er such legends say, Of warlike demon, ghost, or fay, On mountain, moor, or plain, Spotless in faith, in bosom bold, True son of chivalry should hold These midnight terrors vain; For seldom hath such spirit power To harm, save in the evil hour, When guilt we meditate within, Or harbour unrepented sin.” Lord Marmion turned him half aside, And twice to clear his voice he tried, Then pressed Sir David’s hand— But nought at length in answer said, And here their farther converse stayed, Each ordering that his band Should bowne them with the rising day, To Scotland’s camp to take their way— Such was the King’s command. XXIII.