The startled Abbess loud exclaimed; But she at whom the blow was aimed Grew pale as death, and cold as lead— She deemed she heard her death-doom read. “Cheer thee, my child,” the Abbess said; “They dare not tear thee from my hand To ride alone with armèd band.” “Nay, holy mother, nay,” Fitz-Eustace said, “the lovely Clare Will be in Lady Angus’ care, In Scotland while we stay; And when we move, an easy ride Will bring us to the English side, Female attendance to provide Befitting Gloucester’s heir; Nor thinks, nor dreams, my noble lord, By slightest look, or act, or word, To harass Lady Clare. Her faithful guardian he will be, Nor sue for slightest courtesy That e’en to stranger falls. Till he shall place her, safe and free, Within her kinsman’s halls.” He spoke, and blushed with earnest grace; His faith was painted on his face, And Clare’s worst fear relieved. The Lady Abbess loud exclaimed On Henry, and the Douglas blamed, Entreated, threatened, grieved; To martyr, saint, and prophet prayed, Against Lord Marmion inveighed, And called the Prioress to aid, To curse with candle, bell, and book. Her head the grave Cistercian shook: “The Douglas and the King,” she said, “In their commands will be obeyed; Grieve not, nor dream that harm can fall The maiden in Tantallon Hall.” XXXI. The Abbess, seeing strife was vain, Assumed her wonted state again— For much of state she had— Composed her veil, and raised her head, And—“Bid,” in solemn voice she said, “Thy master, bold and bad, The records of his house turn o’er, And when he shall there written see, That one of his own ancestry Drove the monks forth of Coventry, Bid him his fate explore. Prancing in pride of earthly trust, His charger hurled him to the dust, And, by a base plebeian thrust, He died his band before. God judge ’twixt Marmion and me; He is a chief of high degree, And I a poor recluse; Yet oft, in Holy Writ, we see Even such weak minister as me May the oppressor bruise: For thus, inspired, did Judith slay The mighty in his sin, And Jael thus, and Deborah”— Here hasty Blount broke in:— “Fitz-Eustace, we must march our band; Saint Anton’ fire thee! wilt thou stand All day, with bonnet in thy hand, To hear the lady preach? By this good light! if thus we stay, Lord Marmion, for our fond delay, Will sharper sermon teach. Come, don thy cap, and mount thy horse; The dame must patience take perforce.” XXXII.