But Ronald stopped him.—“Sir, Sir, do not dim Your honour by a moment’s angry whim; Your soul’s too just and generous, were you cool, To act at once the assassin and the fool. Bring me the men on whom revenge is due, And I will dirk them willingly as you! But all the real authors of that black Old deed are gone—you cannot bring them back. And this poor guest, ’tis palpable to judge, In all his life ne’er bore our clan a grudge; Dragged when a boy against his will to share That massacre, he loathed the foul affair. Think, if your hardened heart be conscience-proof, To stab a stranger underneath your roof! One who has broken bread within your gate— Reflect—before reflection comes too late,— Such ugly consequences there may be As judge and jury, rope and gallows-tree. The days of dirking snugly are gone by, Where could you hide the body privily, When search is made for’t?” “Plunge it in yon flood, That Campbells crimsoned with our kindred blood.” “Ay, but the corpse may float—” “Pshaw! dead men tell No tales—nor will it float if leaded well. I am determined!”—What could Ronald do? No house within ear-reach of his halloo, Though that would but have published household shame He temporized with wrath he could not tame, And said, “Come in, till night put off the deed, And ask a few more questions ere he bleed.” They entered; Norman with portentous air Strode to a nook behind the stranger’s chair, And, speaking nought, sat grimly in the shade, With dagger in his clutch beneath his plaid. His son’s own plaid, should Norman pounce his prey, Was coiled thick round his arm, to turn away Or blunt the dirk. He purposed leaving free The door, and giving Allan time to flee, Whilst he should wrestle with (no safe emprise) His father’s maniac strength and giant size. Meanwhile he could nowise communicate The impending peril to his anxious mate; But she, convinced no trifling matter now Disturbed the wonted calm of Ronald’s brow, Divined too well the cause of gloom that lowered, And sat with speechless terror overpowered. Her face was pale, so lately blithe and bland, The stocking knitting-wire shook in her hand. But Ronald and the guest resumed their thread Of converse, still its theme that day of dread. “Much,” said the veteran, “much as I bemoan That deed, when half a hundred years have flown, Still on one circumstance I can reflect That mitigates the dreadful retrospect. A mother with her child before us flew, I had the hideous mandate to pursue; But swift of foot, outspeeding bloodier men, I chased, o’ertook her in the winding glen, And showed her palpitating, where to save Herself and infant in a secret cave; Nor left them till I saw that they could mock Pursuit and search within that sheltering rock.”