Impatient of the silent horn, Now on the gale her voice was borne: 'Father!' she cried; the rocks around Loved to prolong the gentle sound. A while she paused, no answer came— 'Malcolm, was thine the blast?' the name Less resolutely uttered fell, The echoes could not catch the swell. 'A stranger I,' the Huntsman said, Advancing from the hazel shade. The maid, alarmed, with hasty oar, Pushed her light shallop from the shore, And when a space was gained between, Closer she drew her bosom's screen— So forth the startled swan would swing, So turn to prune his ruffled wing. Then safe, though fluttered and amazed, She paused, and on the stranger gazed. Not his the form, nor his the eye, That youthful maidens wont to fly.
XXI
On his bold visage middle age Had slightly pressed its signet sage, Yet had not quenched the open truth And fiery vehemence of youth; Forward and frolic glee was there, The will to do, the soul to dare, The sparkling glance, soon blown to fire, Of hasty love, or headlong ire. His limbs were cast in manly mold, For hardy sports or contest bold; And though in peaceful garb arrayed, And weaponless, except his blade, His stately mien as well implied A high-born heart, a martial pride, As if a Baron's crest he wore, And sheathed in armor trod the shore. Slighting the petty need he showed, He told of his benighted road; His ready speech flowed fair and free, In phrase of gentlest courtesy; Yet seemed that tone, and gesture bland, Less used to sue than to command.
XXII
A while the maid the stranger eyed, And, reassured, at length replied, That Highland halls were open still To wildered wanderers of the hill. 'Nor think you unexpected come To yon lone isle, our desert home; Before the heath had lost the dew, This morn, a couch was pulled for you; On yonder mountain's purple head Have ptarmigan and heath-cock bled, And our broad nets have swept the mere,
