The Rhyme Of The Lady Of The Rock. Fitte The Second. Poem by Emily Pfeiffer

The wassail had reached its stormy height,
The feast was over in hall,
When there came and stood at the lady's side
A gloomy seneschal;
As he pointed the way to a turret near
She knew that it led to the bride chambère.
And she that was rose of fair Argyle—
A white rose she was then!—
Stood up and waited no second sign,
But bowed to the roystering men,
And passed with her bower-maids out of the hall
I' the lead of the wordless seneschal.
Then some who noted her proud and pale
Bent laughing over the board:
'She is white as a widow's callant,' they said,
'Who should whet a maiden-sword.'
And in sooth the Lady Elizabeth
Had blithelier followed the feet of Death
Than the form which, fronting the torch's glare,
Cast a giant shade on the turret stair.
And when she stood in her bridal bower,
She turned to her maidens twain:
'No hand but this of mine may dress
The bride of the red Maclean;
So lend me but your prayers this night,
And fare ye well till the fair daylight.'
She cast her garments one by one,
Alone as she stood there;
She was to sight no summer flower
But a woman deadly fair,
When forth she drew the golden comb
And loosed the golden hair
Which sheathed her body to her knee,—
A ringed and burnished panoply.
Then, as a swimmer, with her arms
The amber flood she spurned
To either side, and in her hand
She took a gem that burned—
That rose and fell upon her heart
As a thing that bore in its life a part.
'Twas a golden dragon in jewelled mail
That lay betwixt breast and breast
Over that gentle lady's heart,
Couched as a lance in rest;
And that cunning sample of goldsmith's work,
It was the handle of a dirk.
She drew it forth of its leathern sheath,
And she felt its steely edge,
Then gave some drops of her quick young blood
To its point, as if in pledge,
Ere she wound her hair in a silken thong,
And the dirk in that golden chain and strong.
She laid the dragon again to sleep
In its balmy place of rest:
O God, that a home so soft and fair
Should harbour such a guest!
Then her winsome self she re-arrayed,
And fell on her trembling knees and prayed.
She muttered many an Ave then,
And told off many a bead,
Till her passion sealed her lips, for words
But mocked so sore a need;
Then she stopped and listened beside the breeze,
And only waited upon her knees.
And as she listened, the distant sound
Of wassail ceased, and all
Her soul rushed armed into her ears
At sound of a dull foot-fall
Which wound its way to the topmost tower
Where was the lady's bridal bower.
The wind was piping through lock and loop,
But of nothing was she 'ware,
There was no sound in all the world
But that foot upon the stair;—
And as she listened, and heard it rise,
Her soul rushed armed into her eyes.
She stood up white in her snowy pall,
A breathing image of death,
The torch-light crowning her radiant hair,
Her sombre face beneath.
'As I am a virgin pure this night,
So keep me, God, through dark to light;
As I am a child of the deep Argyle,
Souls of my fathers! teach me wile.'
The iron door on its hinges turned
And closed on the married twain,
And redder yet from his deep carouse
There stood the red Maclean;
And their four eyes met, and no word was said
Till his glance fell off on the vacant bed.
Then she: 'I have prayed of Mary's grace
That she would us assoil
For that this day with lips forsworn
We sought to cut the coil
Of mortal hate that has ever lain
Betwixt the Argyle and Maclean.'
Then low he laughed: 'To kneel and pray,
Lady, beseemeth thee,
But to make of our false oath a true
Is the task that fitteth me;
My word, before the morrow's sun,
You shall avouch the work well done.'
He moved a step to where she stood,
And she recoiled a pace;
His wandering eyes again were set
In wonder on her face.
They paused, they made a mutual stand;
His breath fell hot upon her hand.
'You are a lord of the Isles,' quoth she,
'And the Islemen's mood is light,
But I am a child of the firm mainland,
And I change not in a night.
There is nought of me that a man may win,
And I think not to overlay sin with sin.
'Now nothing could hap that would make us twain
But false as woman and man,
Yet by grace of God we may still be true
Each to our name and clan,
And each to each in a sidelong way
True to the bond we have sealed this day.
'You asked for a gage of my feudal chief,
But of me nor word nor smile;
You sought but to better the strength you had
With the strength of the deep Argyle;
You shall have your due and no more of me
Than a contract's seal and warrantry.'
He laughed in his beard: 'Ay, many have tried,
But all have tried in vain,
To mete with a measure that was not his
The due of the red Maclean;
Still with iron hand he has held his right,
But never so close as he will this night.'
She set herself as a hind at bay,
She straightened her back to the wall;
'I that am come as a hostage here,
Would you use me as a thrall?'
'Not so,' quoth he, 'but by limb and life,
I'll use you as my wedded wife.'
'I am an earl's daughter,' she said,
'And my oath is worth a knight's,
And I swear by the health of my mother's soul,
That the kiss which first alights
On me as we two lie in bed,
Shall have the force to strike me dead.'
'You are an earl's daughter,' he said,
'And a maid without a stain;
But as you are here in Castle Duart,
And I am the red Maclean,
That oath shall no more be your screen
Than if you were the veriest quean.'
She shrunk as into the granite wall,
She parried his rude embrace;
His fierce eyes glowed like the autumn fern,
His breath was hot on her face;
Her heart seemed knocking against the stone,
It beat as it would burst her zone.
She cried a cry, but it fell still-born,
It died in her throat for fear,
Though the meaning ablaze in the dauntless gaze
Of her flame-blue eyes was clear;
And it was that the Lady Elizabeth
Was ready to give as to take of death.
Her hand bore hard on her heaving breast,
And he knew whereto it clung,
And saw how her eyes on the turn of his,
Two deadly warders, hung;
Then his caitiff soul succumbed to hers,
He let her go, and sprung
Back with the cry of a ravening beast
Baulked on the eve of a gory feast.
Twice already that tyrant chief
Had seen th' accusing steel
Cleaving the way to his savage heart
In a victim's last appeal;
And he hated more the better he knew
The flash of that lightning cold and blue.
He glanced at the dagger's golden string,
And his sodden wit grew clear;
'Wear to, wear to, I will stalk this maid,
As we stalk the Highland deer.'
The fumes of wassail that left his brain
Had left it free to fear;
'She is yet too wild,' he said, 'and deep
To be taken waking or asleep.'
He spoke her fair: 'You have journeyed far,
By mountain and by flood,
And to you of all that life hath dear,
Sleep only seemeth good;
So you shall taste untroubled rest
This night as 'twere a stranger guest.'
Her left hand sheathed the shining dirk,
She gave to him her right:
'Now lay your sword betwixt us two
As you are a belted knight.
Then God be watch and ward,' she said,
And stretched herself by the sword in bed.
And hourly, as the night wore on,
She lay in the deepening gloom,
Her two hands folded upon her breast
Like a statue on a tomb;
But she seemed to feel the dirk beneath
Her fingers tingling in its sheath.
And the moon came softly out of a cloud
I' the midmost of the night,
And through the loop-hole gazed at her,
She lying still and white
Beside the castle's lord, who slept
While she her wary vigil kept.
But when the morning's face rose pale
O'er the shoulder of Cruachan-ben,
She stole from out the bride chambère,
A joyful woman then;
And alone in face of the risen sun
She dared to weep: the day was won!