"Now, by Columba's shrine I swear,
And every saint that's buried there,
'Tis he himself!" Lorn sternly cries;
"And for my kinsman's death he dies!"
As loudly Roland calls, "Forbear!
Not in my sight while brand I wear,
O'ermatched by odds shall warrior fall,
Or blood of stranger stain my hall!
This ancient fortress of my race
Shall be misfortune's resting-place,
Shelter or shield of the distressed,
No slaughter-house of shipwrecked guest!"
11. "Talk not to me," fierce Lorn replied,
"Of odds or match! When Comyn died,
Three daggers clashed within his side!
Talk not to me of sheltering hall,
The church of God saw Comyn fall!
On God's own altar streamed his blood,
While o'er my prostrate kinsman stood
The ruthless murderer--e'en as now--
With armed hand and scornful brow!
Up, all who love me! blow on blow,
And lay the outlawed felons low!"
* * * * *
12. Then waked the wild debate again,
With brawling threat and clamor vain,
Vassals and menials thronging in,
Lent their brute rage to swell the din;
When far and wide a bugle clang
From the dark, ocean upward rang.
"The abbot comes!" they cried at once,
"The holy man whose favored glance
Hath sainted visions known;
Angels have met him on the way,
Beside the blessed martyr's bay,
And by Columba's stone.
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