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 'Then, by my word,' the Saxon said, 'The riddle is already read, Seek yonder brake, beneath the cliff,— 'Their lies Red Murdoch, stark and stiff. Thus Fate has solved her prophecy, Then yield to Fate and not to me.' Dark lightening flashed from Rhoderick's eye Soars thy presumption then so high. Because a wretched kern ye slew, Homage to name to Rhoderick Dhu! He yields not he, to man nor Fate! Thou add'st but fuel to my hate! My clans-man's blood demands revenge— Not yet prepared?—By heaven I change My thought, and hold thy valour light As that of some vain carpet knight, Who ill deserved my courteous care, And whose best boast is but to wear A braid of his fair lady's hair! —'I thank thee, Rhoderick, for the word! It warms my heart, it steels my sword; For I have sworn this braid to stain In the best blood that warms thy vein. Now, truce, farewell! and ruth begone! Yet think not that by the alone, Proud Chief! can courtesy be shone, Though not from copse, or heath, or cairn, Start at my whistle clansman stern, Of this small horn one feeble blast Would fearful odds against the cast. But fear not—doubt not—which thou wilt We try this quarrel hilt to hilt'— Then each at once his falchion drew, Each on the ground his scabbard threw,