The
sun's morning beams tinged turret and tower. The wreaths of rising smoke
turned to clouds of red and gold. Dusky grandeur clothed the height
where the huge castle stood in state. Far to the north, ridge on ridge,
rose the mountains, the rosy morning light bathing their sides in floods
of sunshine, and turning each heather bell at their feet into an
amethyst. Yonder could be seen the shores of Fife, nearer Preston Bay
and Berwick. Between them rolled the broad Firth, islands floating on
its bosom like emeralds on a chain of gold.
"Fitz-Eustace' heart felt closely pent;
As if to give his rapture vent,
The spur he to his charger lent,
And raised his bridle hand,
And making demivolte in air,
Cried, 'Where's the coward that would not dare
To fight for such a land!'"
While they gazed the time arrived for King James to take his way to a
solemn mass. The distant bells chimed the hour, the fife, the sackbut,
the psaltery, the cymbal, the war-pipe, in discordant cry took up the
note, and together the sounds rolled up the hillside.
Sir David sighed as he listened.
"I look," he said, "upon this city, Empress of the North, her palaces,
her castles, her stately halls, her holy towers, and think what war's
mischance may bring.
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