Then, from a rusted iron hook, A bunch of ponderous keys he took, Lighted a torch, and Allan led Through grated arch and passage dread. Portals they passed, where, deep within, Spoke prisoner's moan and fetters' din; Through rugged vaults, where, loosely stored, Lay wheel, and axe, and headsmen's sword, And many a hideous engine grim, For wrenching joint and crushing limb, By artists formed who deemed it shame And sin to give their work a name. They halted at a Iow-browed porch, And Brent to Allan gave the torch, While bolt and chain he backward rolled, And made the bar unhasp its hold. They entered:--'twas a prison-room Of stern security and gloom, Yet not a dungeon; for the day Through lofty gratings found its way, And rude and antique garniture Decked the sad walls and oaken floor, Such as the rugged days of old Deemed fit for captive noble's hold. 'Here,' said De Brent, 'thou mayst remain Till the Leech visit him again. Strict is his charge, the warders tell, To tend the noble prisoner well.' Retiring then the bolt he drew, And the lock's murmurs growled anew. Roused at the sound, from lowly bed A captive feebly raised his head. The wondering Minstrel looked, and knew-- Not his dear lord, but Roderick Dhu! For, come from where Clan-Alpine fought, They, erring, deemed the Chief he sought. XIII. As the tall ship, whose lofty prore Shall never stem the billows more, Deserted by her gallant band, Amid the breakers lies astrand,-- So on his couch lay Roderick Dhu! And oft his fevered limbs he threw In toss abrupt, as when her sides Lie rocking in the advancing tides, That shake her frame with ceaseless beat, Yet cannot heave her from her seat;-- O, how unlike her course at sea! Or his free step on hill and lea!-- Soon as the Minstrel he could scan,-- 'What of thy lady?--of my clan?-- My mother?--Douglas?--tell me all! Have they been ruined in my fall? Ah, yes! or wherefore art thou here? Yet speak,--speak boldly,--do not fear.'-- For Allan, who his mood well knew, Was choked with grief and terror too.-- 'Who fought?--who fled?--Old man, be brief;-- Some might,--for they had lost their Chief. Who basely live?--who bravely died?' 'O, calm thee, Chief!' the Minstrel cried, 'Ellen is safe!' 'For that thank Heaven!' 'And hopes are for the Douglas given;-- The Lady Margaret, too, is well; And, for thy clan,--on field or fell, Has never harp of minstrel told Of combat fought so true and bold. Thy stately Pine is yet unbent, Though many a goodly bough is rent.' XIV.