第119章 XVII.

'Sweet Ellen, dear my life must be, Since it is worthy care from thee;et life I hold but idle breath When love or honor's weighed with death.

Then let me profit by my chance, And speak my purpose bold at once.

I come to bear thee from a wild Where ne'er before such blossom smiled, By this soft hand to lead thee far From frantic scenes of feud and war.

Near Bochastle my horses wait;

They bear us soon to Stirling gate.

I'll place thee in a lovely bower, I'll guard thee like a tender flower--'

'O hush, Sir Knight! 't were female art, To say I do not read thy heart;Too much, before, my selfish ear Was idly soothed my praise to hear.

That fatal bait hath lured thee back, In deathful hour, o'er dangerous track;And how, O how, can I atone The wreck my vanity brought on!--One way remains--I'll tell him all--

Yes! struggling bosom, forth it shall!

Thou, whose light folly bears the blame, Buy shine own pardon with thy shame!

But first--my father is a man Outlawed and exiled, under ban;The price of blood is on his head, With me 't were infamy to wed.

Still wouldst thou speak?--then hear the truth!

Fitz- James, there is a noble youth--

If yet he is!--exposed for me And mine to dread extremity--Thou hast the secret of my bears;

Forgive, be generous, and depart!'