"The moon looks bright on Rudolph's towers,
The breeze laughs lightly by,
But dark and silent sleep the hours,
The lone brook murmuring nigh.
"The lank weed waves round thy domain,
The fox creeps to thy gate;
Dark is thy dwelling, proud chieftain,
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.
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