18. "Abbot!" the Bruce replied, "thy charge It boots me not to dispute at large; This much, howe'er, I bid thee know, No selfish vengeance dealt the blow, For Comyn died his country's foe. Nor blame I friends whose ill-timed speed Fulfilled my soon-repented deed, Nor censure those from whose stern tongue The dire anathema has rung. I only blame my own wild ire, By Scotland's wrongs incensed to fire. Heaven knows my purpose to atone, Far as I may, the evil done, And bears a penitent's appeal, From papal curse and prelate zeal. My first and dearest task achieved, Fair Scotland from her thrall relieved, Shall many a priest in cope and stole Say requiem for Red Comyn's soul, While I the blessèd cross advance, And expiate this unhappy chance In Palestine, with sword and lance. But, while content the church should know My conscience owns the debt I owe, Unto de Argentine and Lorn The name of traitor I return, Bid them defiance, stern and high, And give them in their throats the lie! These brief words spoke, I speak no more, Do as thou wilt; my shrift is o'er." 19. Like man by prodigy amazed, Upon the king the abbot gazed; Then o'er his pallid features glance Convulsions of ecstatic trance. His breathing came more thick and fast, And from his pale-blue eyes were cast Strange rays of wild and wandering light; Uprise his locks of silver white, Flushed is his brow, through every vein In azure tides the currents strain, And undistinguished accents broke The awful silence e'er he spoke.