Part III
It was near the ringing of matin-bell,
The night was wellnigh done,
When a heavy sleep on that Baron fell,
On the Eve of good St. John.
The Lady looked through the chamber fair,
By the light of a dying flame;
And she was aware of a Knight stood there—
Sir Richard of Coldinghame!
“Alas! away, away!” she cried,
“For the holy Virgin’s sake!”—
“Lady, I know who sleeps by thy side;
But, Lady, he will not awake.
“By Eildon Tree, for long nights three,
In bloody grave have I lain;
The mass and the death-prayer are said for me,
But, Lady, they are said in vain.
“By the Baron’s brand, near Tweed’s fair strand,
Most foully slain, I fell;
And my restless sprite on the beacon’s height,
For a space is doomed to dwell.
“At our trysting-place, for a certain space,
I must wander to and fro;
But I had not had power to come to thy bower,
Hadst thou not conjured me so.”—
Love mastered fear—her brow she crossed;
“How, Richard, hast thou sped?
And art thou saved, or art thou lost?”
The vision shook his head!
“Who spilleth life, shall forfeit life;
So bid thy lord believe:
That lawless love is guilt above,
This awful sign receive.”
He laid his left palm on an oaken beam:
His right upon her hand;
The Lady shrunk, and fainting sunk,
For it scorched like a fiery brand.
The sable score, of fingers four,
Remains on that board impressed;
And for evermore that Lady wore
A covering on her wrist.
There is a nun in Dryburgh bower,
Ne’er looks upon the sun;
There is a monk in Melrose tower,
He speaketh word to none.
That nun, who ne’er beholds the day,
That monk, who speaks to none—
That nun was Smaylho’me’s Lady gay,
That monk the bold Baron.
Sir Walter Scott