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 head, 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— Nay, never look upon your lord, And lay your hands upon your sword— 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 thence 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 gate behind him rung: To pass there was such scanty room, The bars descending razed his plume. XV. 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 clenchéd 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. A letter forged! Saint Jude to speed! Did ever knight so foul a deed! At first in heart it liked me ill, When the King praised his clerkly skill. Thanks to St. Bothan, son of mine, Save Gawain, ne’er could pen a line: So swore I, and I swear it still, Let my boy-bishop fret his fill. 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 can he speak, and fairly ride, I warrant him a warrior tried.” With this his mandate he recalls, And slowly seeks his castle halls. XVI.