“O’er that gulph of yawning flame
      Horrid shapes are hovering;
    Monstrous forms, of hideous name,
      To the bridal-bed they bring.

    “‘They come!—­they come!’ their frantic yell. 
      On a wave of billowy light
    Sudden rose (so marvellers tell)
      The maiden and her traitor knight.

    “The moon looks bright on Rudolph’s towers,
      The breeze laughs lightly by,
    But dark and silent sleep the hours,
      The lone brook murmuring nigh.

    “The lank weed waves round thy domain,
      The fox creeps to thy gate;
    Dark is thy dwelling, proud chieftain,
      Thy halls are desolate!”

The legend we have thus rendered.  His own idiom and versification, as we have already observed, were of a more unintelligible sort, though better suited, perhaps, to the fashion of the time and the capacity of his hearers.

But a gloom still pervaded the once cheerful hearth, and the night wore on without the usual symptoms of mirth and hilarity.

Holt of Grislehurst held the manorial rights, and was feudal lord over a widely-extended domain, the manor of Spotland descending to him by succession from his grandfather.  His character was that of a quiet, unostentatious country gentleman; but withal of a proud spirit, not brooking either insult or neglect.  This night, an unaccountable depression stole upon him.  He strode rapidly across the chamber, moody and alone.  The taper was nigh extinguished; the wasted billet grew pale, a few sparks starting up the chimney, as the wind roared in short and hasty gusts round the dwelling.  The old family portraits seemed to flit from their dark panels, wavering with the tremulous motion of the blaze.

Holt was still pacing the chamber with a disturbed and agitated step.  A few words, rapid and unconnected, fell from his lips.

“Rebel!—­Outcast!  I cannot betray thee!”

“Betray me!” echoed a voice from behind.  Turning, the speaker stood before him.  It was the athletic form of the stranger, wrapped in his grey cloak and cap of coarse felt, plumed from the falcon’s wing.

“And who speaks the word that shall betray me?  A king,—­a fugitive!  Yet, not all the means that treachery can compass shall trammel one hair upon this brow without my privity or consent.”

“Comest thou like the sharp wind into my dwelling?” inquired Holt, in a voice tremulous with amazement.

“Free as the unconfined air; yet fettered by a lighter bond,—­a woman’s love!” returned the intruder.  “Thou hast a daughter.”

The Lord of Grislehurst grew pale at these words.  Some terrific meaning clung to them.  After a short pause the stranger continued:—­

“Thus speak the legends of Tigernach, and the bards of Ulster, rapt into visions of the future:—­’When a king of Erin shall flee at the voice of a woman, then shall the distaff and spindle conquer whom the sword and buckler shall not subdue.’  That woman is yon heretic queen.  A usurper, an intruder on our birthright.  Never were the O’Neales conquered but by woman!  I have lingered here when the war-cry hath rung from the shores of my country.  Again the shout hath come, and the impatient chiefs wait for my return.  But”——­