第193章 XXVII.

As wreath of snow on mountain-breast Slides from the rock that gave it rest, Poor Ellen glided from her stay, And at the Monarch's feet she lay;No word her choking voice commands,--

She showed the ring,--she clasped her hands.

O, not a moment could he brook, The generous Prince, that suppliant look!

Gently he raised her,--and, the while, Checked with a glance the circle's smile;Graceful, but grave, her brow he kissed, And bade her terrors be dismissed:--'Yes, fair; the wandering poor Fitz-James The fealty of Scotland claims.

To him thy woes, thy wishes, bring;

He will redeem his signet ring.

Ask naught for Douglas;--yester even, His Prince and he have much forgiven;Wrong hath he had from slanderous tongue, I, from his rebel kinsmen, wrong.

We would not, to the vulgar crowd, Yield what they craved with clamor loud;Calmly we heard and judged his cause, Our council aided and our laws.

I stanched thy father's death-feud stern With stout De Vaux and gray Glencairn;And Bothwell's Lord henceforth we own The friend and bulwark of our throne.--But, lovely infidel, how now?

What clouds thy misbelieving brow?

Lord James of Douglas, lend shine aid;

Thou must confirm this doubting maid.'