On his bold visage middle age Had slightly pressed its signet sage, 410 Yet had not quenched the open truth And fiery vehemence of youth; Forward and frolic glee was there, The will to do, the soul to dare, The sparkling glance, soon blown to fire, 415 Of hasty love, or headlong ire. His limbs were cast in manly mold, For hardy sports or contest bold; And though in peaceful garb arrayed, And weaponless, except his blade, 420 His stately mien as well implied A high-born heart, a martial pride, As if a Baron's crest he wore, And sheathed in armor trod the shore. Slighting the petty need he showed, 425 He told of his benighted road; His ready speech flowed fair and free, In phrase of gentlest courtesy; Yet seemed that tone, and gesture bland, Less used to sue than to command. 430 XXII A while the maid the stranger eyed, And, reassured, at length replied, That Highland halls were open still To wildered wanderers of the hill. "Nor think you unexpected come 435 To yon lone isle, our desert home; Before the heath had lost the dew, This morn, a couch was pulled for you; On yonder mountain's purple head Have ptarmigan and heath-cock bled, 440 And our broad nets have swept the mere, To furnish forth your evening cheer." "Now, by the rood, my lovely maid, Your courtesy has erred," he said; "No right have I to claim, misplaced, 445 The welcome of expected guest. A wanderer here, by fortune tost, My way, my friends, my courser lost, I ne'er before, believe me, fair, Have ever drawn your mountain air, 450 Till on this lake's romantic strand, I found a fay in fairy land!" XXIII "I well believe," the maid replied, As her light skiff approached the side, "I well believe, that ne'er before 455 Your foot has trod Loch Katrine's shore; But yet, as far as yesternight, Old Allan-bane foretold your plight, A gray-haired sire, whose eye intent Was on the visioned future bent. 460 He saw your steed, a dappled gray, Lie dead beneath the birchen way; Painted exact your form and mien, Your hunting suit of Lincoln green, That tasselled horn so gaily gilt, 465 That falchion's crooked blade and hilt, That cap with heron plumage trim, And yon two hounds so dark and grim. He bade that all should ready be, To grace a guest of fair degree; 470 But light I held his prophecy, And deemed it was my father's horn, Whose echoes o'er the lake were borne." XXIV