Yet marked she not where Douglas lay,
She only saw the well;
The tiny fountain, churning spray
Within its mossy cell.
'Oh! I have wrongs to pay,' she said;
'Give life, give vigour now.'
And stooping by the water's side
She drank the crystal flow.
And brightly with that draught came back
The glory of her matchless eye
As glancing o'er the moorland track,
She shook her head impatiently.
Nor shape—nor shade—the mountain flocks
Quietly fed in grassy dells;
Nor sound, except the distant rocks
Echoing to their bells.
She turns—she meets the murderer's gaze;
Her own is scorched with a sudden blaze.
The blood streams down her brow;
The blood streams through her coal-black hair,
She strikes it off with little care;
She scarcely feels the flow;
For she has marked and known him too,
And his own heart's ensanguined dew
Must slake her vengeance now!
The mortal strife that then befell;
False friend! no tongue save thine can tell