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against the crest of a Scot;-nay, nay, -I was abroad, lady, I was abroad, among the French, and sore strokes were given, some of which, and sad ones too, fell to my share. Seven sword wounds, and thirteen lance wounds, all in the front, lady, never to speak of arrow shot;-the shafts flew as thick as goose-down at Christmas, sharp and unsonsie, as ye say in the north country. God defend ye from war, lady, and may no one that ye love ever go where the lances are levelled, and the cross-bows are strained,- -a perilous trade, lady-a perilous trade,-perilous work, and poor pay.'

"When the old soldier named the French wars, Beatrice coloured deeply and trembled a little, and changing the silver into gold, said, Soldier,-among the English, who is the gallantest knight,—and who do the ladies of France love, and the minstrels laud?'—' Ah,' said the soldier, is it easy to say which of the stars of the sky are the fairest,— and which of the flowers of the field are the loveliest? when there are Howards, and Dacres, and Percys, there will be gallant knights, and noble deeds of arms. But in my poor mind, the gallantest soldier, and the one whom minstrels laud and ladies love, is one who sleeps on the grass with his mantle over him,eats coarse food, drinks only water, and has a black hound ever by his side. He is meek of speech, and lisps a little. I fought under his banner, and need hath he to bear him bravely who follows him, for he is ever with the foremost, and wherever the shout of a "Heron, a Heron," arises, there are gory spurs, and bloody lances, and many a brave one in the dust.' He looked on the gold as she laid it in his hand, and with many a bow, and God save you, lady,' he went halting along ;it was the first news she had heard of Sir Hugh Heron, and blithely went she home, and many a face was glad.

"Several weeks passed, and the lady was again seated on the same stone, and with her dog at her foot looked out upon the sea. Sir Aymer came and sat down by her; and looked with her upon the waters. The wind which moves the sea, lady,' he said, 'comes from the French shore,

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and has not many minutes ago been fanning the hot brows and nodding plumes of Sir Hugh Heron and his chivalry.' And while he spoke, a boat came swiftly along the coast,

pushed into a little creek; a man in the garb of a soldier leaped lightly out, and advancing towards their seat, said, Who can show me the way to Heron tower, and take me to Beatrice Halliday?' • There stands the tower,' said Sir Aymer, and here sits Beatrice Halliday ;fellow, saw ye ever a fairer?' The soldier stood and looked on the lady for a moment or two,- Aye, Sir Knight, fair enough for a Scottish woman, but be she of the north or of the south, or fair or foul, I am the bearer of a message to her if she knows aught of Sir Hugh Heron.' Her bosom fluttered and her colour changed. Sir Aymer started up,

Fellow, fellow,' he said, if ye have aught evil to relate, let it be in my ear alone.'- Shame fall me, then,' said the messenger, and may frequent hunger, and hard battles, and bad billets, be my luck in life, if I deliver my message to another ear than the lady's own. But it's soon said,-it's soon said;-at the siege of Caen Sir Hugh Heron was sore wounded with an arrow in a sortie, and was taken by the French. Nay, nay, lady, never weep for that,

for he's well now,-ye shall hear it all. A fair dame,-a duke's daughter, no less,-took the arrow barb from the wound, and cured him with a lily white hand, and a kindly tongue. A wily dame and a dainty one, she needs must be, if all tales be true. I take St. George to witness that no soft hand salved my wounds,-luck's all,-war rains hard knocks to some and good fortune to others: when Mary Grubson's son was winning knocks on the poll, Sir Hugh Heron was winning a duke's daughter,-luck's all, say I.

"While the soldier ran on with this rude discourse, the young lady looked on the messenger, and then on Sir Aymer, and moving a little apart from them, she said, That Sir Hugh Heron is wounded, and prisoner, is the chance of battle,but that he is faithless is a falsehood;-and untrue to his country too?-I wonder, Sir Aymer, you break not the false messenger's head.

If all men were to swear it,-if all the birds of heaven were to sing it, -and the winds to find a tongue, and do nothing but cry Sir Hugh Heron is disloyal,-I would not credit it. No, his heart is pure, and his mind is noble, and what he says is stronger than other men's oaths, and were this dame queen of the west, instead of a duke's daughter, -were she as beautiful as Eve was when she came fresh from heaven's hand, with the marks of the divine artist upon her, and every look a charm, and every word a spell, she would not win the heart of Sir Hugh Heron.'-' I am pleased to hear thy faith is so strong in my cousin's loyalty,' said Sir Aymer, and he puts the like faith in the lady, for sorely has he tried thy love by his long silence.' Sir Aymer,' said the lady, your words are ungentle and unkind, and with her to whom you utter them they weigh not,'-and she waved her hand, and said,— Soldier, begone,—and if you wish not for stripes that are not numbered, and a dwelling where daylight never comes, name not falsehood and Hugh Heron together again.' And the soldier went muttering away, and was heard of no more.

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"The tale which he told spread far and wide;-it was told with many a strange embellishment, and all the people mourned for the wound and captivity of Sir Hugh Heron. To no one it seemed to bring sincerer sorrow than to his kinsman, Sir Aymer; he demeaned himself with all the humility of grief; and though at times he affected to reckon the soldier's tale an idle fiction, and declared that the faith of a Heron was unchangeable, he nevertheless frequently alluded to the dangers of battle, and mutable faith of man. He ever sought opportunities of being near Beatrice;-sometimes he would ask her with a smile, if she dreamed of the French lady, and how she thought the Lily and the Thistle would quarter on her lover's shield?' And then he said it was a pity such a stain should come upon an old and gallant name. Beatrice listened to all that was said, but her faith in her lover's vows remained unshaken. The mother of Sir Hugh was deeply moved by the story; wounds she cared little for,-young

wounds soon healed;-captivity she regarded not, for gold would mend that, but what could cure the hurts of faith and loyalty? In love with a French lady! was ever the like heard of?-it was true, our kings wedded the daughters of France,but they married not out of love but of policy, for the general good and aggrandisement of the nation. She would disinherit her son, and give the lands and tower to his kinsman Aymer.-And yet she said love was an o'ermastering passion, and it would be a pity to disinherit a brave youth because he fell in love with a fair face. Beatrice was alone unmoved among them all, and never for a moment coupled dishonour with her lover's name.

"It happened one evening that a minstrel came to the gate; and sought to overcome the churlishness of the porter by singing one of the old predatory ballads of the border, but the porter listened to his favourite minstrelsy, and shook his head, and bade him begone. The old man, for he was very old, and with locks like snow, said, The gate of Heron tower had never been shut against music and poetry,-he had been with the great lords in the wars in Normandy, and could sing many a song of gallant deeds ;-fair fall the kind heart that cheered the minstrel,--and foul fall the churlish hand that bolted the jealous gate.' Beatrice, who was seated at her window, heard him pleading earnestly for admission, and she desired Sir Aymer to be kind,-and remember that all good and gallant knights were lovers of historic song. To please thee, lady,' said Sir Aymer,

I will admit this idle ballad-maker for a single night;-he is one of a lying race, who exalt the low, and depress the noble, and for a paltry piece of gold stain high and heroic names. I am no lover of the race, -but your wish is enough.'-And he arose, and conducted the minstrel to the presence chamber.

"He was an old man and of low stature,-had been a harper from his youth, and a warrior from his cradle, and he belonged to that district of long-contested ground called the debatable land of the border. Sometimes he followed the Scottish, and sometimes the English army, and,

like many loftier personages of that period, was alternately a robber and defender of his country. He came and made a low obeisance, and was questioned by Beatrice of the wars in Normandy, and of the deeds of arms. He said, of the achievements of the army he knew little,--it was the valour and the heroism of single warriors of which he sung, he left the deeds of the multitude to the historian. Many songs he had framed of joy for the victor, and lament for the vanquished, and of sorrow for those who fell in battle. But the days of his singing were well nigh done, and it mattered not,-for wicked and politic men had made use of the gentle craft for base and unworthy purposes, and the long reign of historic poesie was drawing to a close. And he sat silent, and seemed unwilling to give any proof of his skill, and Beatrice came near him, and spoke of the poetry of her country, of the rude but graphic strains of chivalry and romance; and repeated some of the tenderer passages with a grace and felicity which charmed all present, save the minstrel himself. I too,' said the old harper, can sing a Scottish song to the harp,-and in my youth my

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songs of joy and mirth were famed far and wide, but of late all my love for mirth is fled, and my strains are now of a sadder and more solemn kind; therefore press me not, lady, for I wish not to make so fair a face sad.' And he drew his aged hands over the harpstrings, which emitted a low and melancholy sound, like the prelude to a funeral dirge. I would have thee to sing us some sad story,' said Beatrice, but let it be no idle fiction,-for idle fictions are abroad; let truth honour thy harpstrings,

the songs of my native land are all songs of truth.' And the minstrel turned his face away, and said,—' I shall sing thee a song of truth,—my last and my saddest,—and when I have sung it I care not if I die,-for the scene which inspired it will be ever before me, asleep or awake. I saw him lying with his sword in his hand, lady, and I heard his words, and there is nothing of the song mine but the rude melody and rhymewhat he said I have sung, and many an eye it has wet with tears, and it may wet thine. Listen to the song, lady, and let the owner of this tower listen,-I come to sing a song of truth.'

HUGH HERON.

All by the lake Hugh Heron lay
'Mong rushes long and green,

The sward around was soak'd with blood,
For there fierce strife had been;
From his fair hair he moved the helm,

And wiped his bloody brow,

"Oh shining helm and shady plume, What brow shall bear ye now?

I've worn ye where shafts fell like snow,

And swords were sharp and sheer,

And waved ye when men raised the shout Of victory in mine ear."

All by the lake Hugh Heron lay,
With dying hand he drew

His bright blade like a sun-beam, out,―
"O sword, oft tried and true,
Through snowy Scotland, sunny Spain,
In glory hast thou swept,

And pass'd o'er France's palmy plains,
And all her ladies wept.

Men knew by cloven shields and helms,
And life's blood on the grass,

And shudderings of the strongest hearts, Where my good weapon was.

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*< ), never more amid the ranks

Of warriors shalt thou gleam,
Or shine with me on Tweed's green banks,

Or Eske's romantic stream.
What now shall shield the hoary head,

When war comes with a sweep,
Or save the mothers when they clasp

Their tender ones and weep?
Oft have I prayed, nigh to the close

Of some victorious day,
Thus to lie with thee in my hand,

And see light fade away."
All by the lake Hugh Heron lay,

Where moved the waters blue;
“ Ah little thought my mother dear,

When her sweet breast I drew,
Ah little thought my own true love,

When, with a trembling hand,
She bound my plumed basnet on,

And girded fast my brand;
And blest me with her sweet Scotch tongue,

And follow'd with her eye,
That I should fall in a far land,

With none who loved me nigh.
“ And yet it is more meet,” he said,

“ My good sword in my hand,
My plumed basnet on my brow,

To fall in a far land,
When earth yet shakes with rushing steeds,

And rocks ring with the cry
Of warriors in the shock, and all

Man's spirits mounted high,
Than where my true love wrings her hands,

And sobbing side by side
Sheds out her soft soul at her eyes;" —

And so Hugh Heron died.

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“ When the song was done, Bea- and strange, and romantic, as to extrice arose, laid a string of pearls on ceed all ordinary belief,-yet they the minstrel's harp,—and moved out filled the mind of Beatrice with doubt of the chamber, her bosom heaving and apprehension. The song of the till the lace which covered it seemed minstrel she esteemed only as one of like to burst. She reached her cham those fictions in which poets take the ber door, when a sob and groan were advantage of a wound or lost battle, heard, and she dropt on the threshold. to raise the wail and the lament, and Lady Heron came, and watched over call the attention of the world to the her like a mother. The peasants object of their esteem. But if she remissed her at morn, and noon, and tained her outward show of spirit and twilight, sitting looking seaward from resolution, a secret trouble was visithe castle-top for eight whole days; ble in her eye, and a change had with the ninth she re-appeared again, come to the bloom of her cheek. Sir and the sound of her voice and her Aymer was duteous and respectful, lute was heard once more coming -anxious for the safety of the castle, from the latticed window of her little and withal so strict and jealous, that chamber.

he permitted no one to speak to the “ This was in summer, and the ladies till he had conversed with middle of harvest came, yet brought them privately ;-it was rumoured no certain tidings of Sir Hugh that many a message, and present, Heron. Of rumours there were and letter, came from Normandy, many, but all so contradictory, which never found their way as the

sender wished, and menials and molest thy gray hairs.' And the old man peasants whispered that he loved the looked mournfully upon him, and said, fair young lady, and coveted the You have seen the present, my child, broad lands of Sir Hugh Heron. behold the future,—and know that

Of all this no suspicion seemed to a determined heart wings are to be entertained in the tower, of given,-your fate is in your own which Sir Aymer had sole charge and hand.' And he looked in the magic trust. Lady Heron seldom left her mirror again, and the blood rushed chamber, save for devotion in the burning to his temples ;-he stood for, chapel, where she continued often a little space, and then exclaimed, till a late hour. Beatrice was her ? Eternal villain!'-and smote the constant companion, and to a meek mirror with his sword till he cleft the, and gentle nature added much ten- steel frame in two,—and out of the derness of heart, and a mind ardent chamber and over the rent and batand enthusiastic. The lady loved her tered walls he went, like one who as her own child, and wished for her bends his heart to do a desperate son from the wars, that she might deed. lay her hand on his head, and bless “ It had long been a custom with him, and go to the altar with Bea- the house of Heron to go once every trice and him. But the love of Bea- third year round the marches of their trice, and the affection of Sir Hugh, grounds,—the first in blood walkand the wishes of Lady Heron, were ed at the head of the procession, not to be fulfilled without peril and with banners displayed, and with blood.

music playing. On the renewal of “ It is said, that during the French this pageant, much care had been wars, the strange vision which had taken to render it striking and gora appeared to Sir Hugh Heron in En- geous. Horses richly caparisoned, gland, continued to haunt him,--and pennons of all hues, and banners won his knowledge of his kinsman's na- in battle, were mixed with the reture filled his mind with mistrust and tainers, who were all completely forebodings. The utter silence of armed, -and mirth, and minstrelsy, his mother and his mistress to all the and wine, abounded. The way was presents and messages he sent them, rough and mountainous, the vales wou have brought him from the were deep and bushy, and the streamuttermost ends of the earth, had not lets many, and rocky, and turbulent, the heroic duties to which his coun- so that they marched' but a little way try had called him demanded heart by noon, and the sun was nigh the and hand. That his home, and his setting when they reached the sea mother, and his mistress, were ever side. present to his mind, was proved at The scene before them was beauthe memorable storming of Caen, tiful, and the natural splendour of when, amid the carnage and the out- rock and wave was increased by a cry, he burst into the chamber of a number of barges covered with flags Norman necromancer, and, with his and streamers, to convey the processword unwiped and bloody, told his sion along the maritime boundary of name, and demanded to see in the the land. Lady Heron, and one or magician's mirror his native tower, two of the intendant matrons of her his mother, and his love. The ma- household, and several of her armed gician gazed on this young and armed retainers, were placed in the first apparition, and said, 'Look there, barge, and at the sound of a trumpet my child.' And he looked in the it darted from the shore, and the mumirror, and there his native valley sic which came from its crowded lay in summer beauty,-herons sat decks rung mellow along the bosoin by the quiet lake,—the gates of his of the sea. Other barges followed, tower were closed,-his mother sat and last of all, and a bowshot benumbering the days and hours he hind, came the barge of Sir Aymer, had been absent, and Beatrice was - manned by his own friends,-men in her chamber pressing to her bosom lured by the love of rich dresses and a token which he had given her of good pay from the wild and licenhis love. And he smiled, and said, tious border,—with dauntless hearts,

I will place two warriors from that and strong hands, marvellously slenlittle valley at thy chamber door, fa- der systems of morality. A minstrel ther, and woe to those who seek to was there,-but he seemed more of a

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