# The Elocutionist (1815-1830)/Fitz-James and Rhoderick Dhu

FITZ-JAMES & RHODERICK DHU.
The Chief in silence strode bcfore, And reached that torrent's sounding shore, Which, daughter of three mighty lakes, From Vennachar in silver breaks, Sweeps through the plain, and ccaseless mines On Bochastle the mouldering lines, Where Rome, the Empress of the World, Of yore her eagle wings unfurled, And hcre his course the Chieftain staid, Thrcw down his target and his plaid, And to the Lowland warrior said:—
​'Bold Saxon! to his promise just, Vich-Alpin has discharged his trust. This murderuus Chief, this ruthless man, This head of a rebellious clan, Hath led thee safe, through watch and ward, Far past Clan-Alpine's outmost guard. Now, man to man, and steel to steel, A Chieftain's vengeance thou shall feel. See, here, all vantageless I stand, Armed like thyself, with single brand; For this is Coilantogle ford, And thou must keep thee with thy sword.'
The Saxon paused:—'I ne'er delayed, When foeman bade me draw my blade; Nay more, brave Chief, I vowed thy death; Yet sure thy fair and generous faith, And my deep debt for life preserved, A better meed have well deserved: Can nought but blood our feud atone? Are there no means?'—'No, Stranger, none! And hear,—to fire thy flagging zeal,— The Saxon cause rests on thy steel; For thus spoke Fate by prophet bred Between the living and the dead; 'Who spills the foremost foeman's life, His party conquers in the strife.' 'Then, by my word,' the Saxon said, 'The riddle is already read, Seek yonder brake beneath the cliff,— There lies Red Murdoch, stark and stiff. Thus Fate has solved her propheey, Then yield to Pate and not to me.' Dark lightning 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 nerves 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 thee alone, Proud Chief! can courtesy be shown. Though not from copse, or heath, or cairn, Start at my whistle clansmen stern, Of this small horn one feeble blast Would fearful odds against thee 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, Each looked to sun, and stream and plain, As what they ne'er might see again; Then foot, and point, and eye opposed, In dubious strife they darkly closed.
Ill far'd it then with Rhoderick Dhu, That on the field his targe he threw, Whose brazen studs and tough bull-hide Had death so often dashed aside: For, trained abroad his arms to wield, Fitz-James's blade was sword and shield. He practised every pass and ward, To thrust, to strike, to feint, to guard; While less expert, though stronger far, The Gael maintained unequal war. Three times in closing strife they stood, And thrice the saxon blade drank blood; ​No stinted draught, no seanty tide, The gushing flood the tartans died. Fierce Rhoderick felt the fatal drain, And showered his blows like wintry rain; And, as firm rock, or castle roof, Against the winter shower is proof, The foe, invulnerable still, Boiled his wild rage by steady skill; Till, at advantage ta'en, his brand Forced Rhoderick's weapon from his hand, And, backwards borne upon the lea, Brought the proud Chieftain to his knee. 'Now, yield thee, or, by Him who made The world, thy heart's blood dyes my blade!' 'Thy threats, thy mercy, I defy! Let recreant yield who fears to die.'— Like adder darting from his coil, Like wolf that dashes through the toil, Like mountain-cat who guards her young, Full at Fitz-James's throat he sprung: Received, but reeked not of a wound, And locked his arms his foeman round.— Now, gallant Saxon, hold thine own! No maiden's hand is round thee thrown! That desperate grasp thy frame might feel, Through bars of brass and triple steel!—
They tug, they strain!—down, down, they go, The Gael above, Fitz-James below. The Chieftian's grip his throat compressed, His knee was planted on his breast; His elotted locks he backward threw, Aeross his brow his hand he drew, From blood and mist to clear his sight, Then gleamed aloft his dagger bright!— —But hate and fury ill supplied The stream of life's exhausted tide, And all too late the advantage came, To turn the odds of deadly game: For, while the dagger gleamed on high, Reeled soul and sense, reeled brain and eye, ​Down came the blow! but in the heath The erring blade found bloodless sheath. The struggling foe may now unelasp The fainting Chief's relaxing grasp; Unwounded from the dreadful close, But breathless all, Fitz-James arose.Sir W. Scott.