12. Then waked the wild debate again, With brawling threat and clamor vain, Vassals and menials thronging in, Lent their brute rage to swell the din; When far and wide a bugle clang From the dark, ocean upward rang. "The abbot comes!" they cried at once, "The holy man whose favored glance Hath sainted visions known; Angels have met him on the way, Beside the blessed martyr's bay, And by Columba's stone. He comes our feuds to reconcile, A sainted man from sainted isle; We will his holy will abide, The abbot shall our strife decide!" 13. The abbot on the threshold stood, And in his hands the holy rood; Back on his shoulders flowed his hood, The torch's glaring ray Showed, in its red and flashing light, His withered cheek and amice white, His blue eye glistening cold and bright, His tresses scant and gray. "Fair lords," he said, "our lady's love, And peace be with you from above, And benedicite! But what means this? no peace is here! Do dirks unsheathed suit bridal cheer? Or are these naked brands A seemly show for churchman's sight, When he comes summoned to unite Betrothed hearts and hands?" Then, cloaking hate with fiery zeal, Proud Lorn answered the appeal: "Thou comest, O holy man, True sons of blessed church to greet, But little deeming here to meet A wretch, beneath the ban Of pope and church, for murder done Even on the sacred altar-stone! Well may'st thou wonder we should know Such miscreant here, nor lay him low, Or dream of greeting, peace, or truce, With excommunicated Bruce! Yet will I grant, to end debate, Thy sainted voice decide his fate." 14. Then Roland pled the stranger's cause And knighthood's oath and honor's laws; And Isabel on bended knee Brought prayers and tears to back her plea; And Edith lent her generous aid, And wept, and Lorn for mercy prayed. 15. Then Argentine, in England's name, So highly urged his sovereign's claim, He waked a spark, that, long suppressed, Had smoldered in Lord Roland's breast; And now, as from the flint the fire, Flashed forth at once his generous ire. "Enough of noble blood," he said, "By English Edward had been shed, Since matchless Wallace first had been In mockery crowned with wreaths of green, And done to death by felon hand, For guarding well his native land. Where's Nigel Bruce? and De la Haye, And valiant Seaton--where are they? Where Somerville, the kind and free? And Fraser, flower of chivalry? Have they not been on gibbet bound, Their quarters flung to hawk and hound, And hold we here a cold debate To yield more victims to their fate? What! can the English leopard's mood Never be gorged with Northern blood? Was not the life of Athole shed To soothe the tyrant's sickened bed? Nor must his word, till dying day, Be nought but quarter, hang, and slay?"