shade; there was one by her side, as there was wont to be in former days, but not then, as of old, did he shrink from observation, for Sybil Scott was his affianced bride. Again the old tower rang with bridal preparations; but this time they were not shadowed by the young bride's sorrow, but her brow was radiant with hope and gladness, such as at one time she had thought would never be hers on earth. Again Sybil's bridal morning broke bright and beautiful as before; but now its beams fell on loving and happy hearts. Again fair bridemaids clustered round the Flower of the Border, but, no longer dimmed by sadness, she shone fairest of them all, though there was one little less lovely, the bridegroom's sister, Christy Scott, the merriest maiden in all the border. The bride and her companions had descended to the hall, Malcolm stood by Sybil's side, and all was in readiness for the marriage ceremony, when David Scott interposed. "It is well known to you all," he said, "that I promised my daughter's hand and any other boon to him who should bring Eliot of Whitterburn within these walls; that promise I will not break but again, and for the last time, I say, that if any one can deliver to me Eliot of Whitterburn, he may claim my daughter's hand, and another boon beside." For a moment there was deep silence in the hall, though each hearer knew those words were but a form. Then Malcolm Scott stepped forward. "Then, on your own terms," he said, "I claim your daughter's hand, and one other boon beside, for Eliot of Whitterburn is now within these walls." "Where! how?" cried David Scott. "Where! how?" echoed a dozen eager voices. "Grant me the boon first," said Malcolm. "Tush, lad, 'tis granted! Where is Eliot?" exclaimed the old man. "Hear the boon first," persisted Malcolm; 'tis Eliot's life and freedom." 'Nay, that I cannot grant; nor should you ask," replied David Scott, sternly. "Nay, but he should ask it, laird, and you must grant it," said Christy, with merry boldness; for, strange as it might seem, her gay humour had rendered her a great favourite with the stern old chieftain. "Bid your brother ask aught but that, girl," he said, impatiently. "Know ye not the insult Robin Eliot has put upon the Scotts, which nought but blood can wash away?" "Then shall ye shed my blood also!" exclaimed the girl, with sudden energy, though tears trembled in her bright blue eyes. "If the Scotts must slay an unarmed foe, it shall be through my heart, and I shall not live to feel the shame!" "Hush, silly girl!" said Malcolm, coming to her side. "Think you not that your brother has a sword to defend and a breast to shield his prisoner? But Scott of Westerdale's word is pledged. I claim that boon, and no other can content me!" "Then tak' it!" cried the old laird, angrily. "But first let me see the chiel you boast of holding. And, by my fay, he shall be a guest at the bridal of Sybil Scott." And in a few minutes Robin Eliot stood among those who had sworn his ruin and death. But stern looks and lowering brows, which might well have daunted less bold a heart, were his greeting, until the strange history of his disappearance turned their anger into mirth; and loudly the walls re-echoed with the laughter of the bold borderers, as they heard that, soon after leaving Gowan Knows, Eliot and his follower had been pounced upon by unseen assailants in a deep dark glen, and, pinioned and blindfolded ere they could strike a blow in their own defence, were carried on horseback, up hill and down dale, as fast as the steeds could bear them, until it seemed as though half the lowlands had been traversed in that breathless haste. And then, in a strong prison, in a lonely tower, Eliot's eyes were at length unbound, to see the sky brightening with the morning which was to have shone upon his bridal. And there, but for the visit of his jailer, a fair lady attended by her maidens, who affected to condole with him on his disappointment, Robin Eliot passed that day in solitude. And so with many a succeeding day, and week, and month; though, after a time, they passed less wearily to the imprisoned laird of Whitterburn, for he had learned to prize more, even than liberty, the smile of the lady who detained him in secure, yet gentle, captivity, and to watch for the step of his beautiful and gentle warder, though it might bring her only to make him the object of her raillery. But the tale ended not here, though already it had charmed away the indignation of the bridal guests, for they had yet to hear how Robin Eliot wooed and won his fair jailer's heart, only to learn, that in her he must wed the sister of his captor, Malcolm Scott, whose tower in Glenconan had needed far less than his long and bewildering night journey to have reached. Even David Scott laughed long and loudly at the mishaps of his once chosen friend, but the jest was one well suited to arouse his merriment; and while he warmly congratulated Eliot on his newly-gained liberty and bride, he fulfilled his double promise, by bestowing on Malcolm of Glenconan the hand of the fairest Flower of the Border. ON MADNESS. BY OCTAVIUS FREIRE OWEN. To watch the sunlight of the soul go down, To mourn those paths obstructed of fair thoughts All restless, for their minstrelsy, but find- Thou lofty potentate, Intelligence, No longer hold'st imperial sway, but like The Titan genius fasten'd to the rock, Art made the sport of passions once thy slaves. The fell insatiate vulture, of chained woe, Gnaws at thy breast, with fruitless rage inflamed; To muse upon the chords of that sweet lyre Whose tones brought joy within us, and to know Them stilled for ever, and their breathings mute, Or yielding to the passing breeze a sound Of incoherent yet celestial tenderness, As though a spirit sighed at Music's death,Life, burns thy torch still, in an hour like this? |