Then deeper paused the priest anew, And hard his laboring breath he drew, While, with set teeth and clenched hand, And eyes that glowed like fiery brand, He meditated curse more dread, And deadlier, on the clansman's head Who, summoned to his chieftain's aid, The signal saw and disobeyed. The crosslet's points of sparkling wood He quenched among the bubbling blood. And, as again the sign he reared, Hollow and hoarse his voice was heard: 'When flits this Cross from man to man, Vich-Alpine's summons to his clan, Burst be the ear that fails to heed! Palsied the foot that shuns to speed! May ravens tear the careless eyes, Wolves make the coward heart their prize! As sinks that blood-stream in the earth, So may his heart's-blood drench his hearth! As dies in hissing gore the spark, Quench thou his light, Destruction dark! And be the grace to him denied, Bought by this sign to all beside! He ceased; no echo gave again The murmur of the deep Amen. XII. Then Roderick with impatient look From Brian's hand the symbol took: 'Speed, Malise, speed' he said, and gave The crosslet to his henchman brave. 'The muster-place be Lanrick mead-- Instant the time---speed, Malise, speed!' Like heath-bird, when the hawks pursue, A barge across Loch Katrine flew: High stood the henchman on the prow; So rapidly the barge-mall row, The bubbles, where they launched the boat, Were all unbroken and afloat, Dancing in foam and ripple still, When it had neared the mainland hill; And from the silver beach's side Still was the prow three fathom wide, When lightly bounded to the land The messenger of blood and brand. XIII. Speed, Malise, speed! the dun deer's hide On fleeter foot was never tied. Speed, Malise, speed! such cause of haste Thine active sinews never braced. Bend 'gainst the steepy hill thy breast, Burst down like torrent from its crest; With short and springing footstep pass The trembling bog and false morass; Across the brook like roebuck bound, And thread the brake like questing hound; The crag is high, the scaur is deep, Yet shrink not from the desperate leap: Parched are thy burning lips and brow, Yet by the fountain pause not now; Herald of battle, fate, and fear, Stretch onward in thy fleet career! The wounded hind thou track'st not now, Pursuest not maid through greenwood bough, Nor priest thou now thy flying pace With rivals in the mountain race; But danger, death, and warrior deed Are in thy course--speed, Malise, speed! XIV.