Thy halls are desolate!"

The legend we have thus rendered. His own idiom and versification, as we
have already observed, were of a more unintelligible sort, though better
suited, perhaps, to the fashion of the time and the capacity of his
hearers.

But a gloom still pervaded the once cheerful hearth, and the night wore
on without the usual symptoms of mirth and hilarity.

Holt of Grislehurst held the manorial rights, and was feudal lord over a
widely-extended domain, the manor of Spotland descending to him by
succession from his grandfather. His character was that of a quiet,
unostentatious country gentleman; but withal of a proud spirit, not
brooking either insult or neglect. This night, an unaccountable
depression stole upon him. He strode rapidly across the chamber, moody
and alone. The taper was nigh extinguished; the wasted billet grew pale,
a few sparks starting up the chimney, as the wind roared in short and
hasty gusts round the dwelling. The old family portraits seemed to flit
from their dark panels, wavering with the tremulous motion of the blaze.

Holt was still pacing the chamber with a disturbed and agitated step. A
few words, rapid and unconnected, fell from his lips.

"Rebel!--Outcast! I cannot betray thee!"

"Betray me!" echoed a voice from behind. Turning, the speaker stood
before him. It was the athletic form of the stranger, wrapped in his
grey cloak and cap of coarse felt, plumed from the falcon's wing.

"And who speaks the word that shall betray me? A king,--a fugitive! Yet,
not all the means that treachery can compass shall trammel one hair
upon this brow without my privity or consent."

"Comest thou like the sharp wind into my dwelling?" inquired Holt, in a
voice tremulous with amazement.

"Free as the unconfined air; yet fettered by a lighter bond,--a woman's
love!" returned the intruder. "Thou hast a daughter."

The Lord of Grislehurst grew pale at these words. Some terrific meaning
clung to them. After a short pause the stranger continued:--

"Thus speak the legends of Tigernach, and the bards of Ulster, rapt into
visions of the future:--'_When a king of Erin shall flee at the voice of
a woman, then shall the distaff and spindle conquer whom the sword and
buckler shall not subdue_.' That woman is yon heretic queen. A usurper,
an intruder on our birthright. Never were the O'Neales conquered but by
woman! I have lingered here when the war-cry hath rung from the shores
of my country