THE PIRATE: Life & Times of John Gow. Walter Scott

be loud as the cry of a perishing nation,

       Though the rushing of thy wings be like the roar of ten thousand waves,

       Yet hear, in thine ire and thy haste, Hear thou the voice of the Reimkennar.

       2

      “Thou hast met the pine-trees of Drontheim,

       Their dark-green heads lie prostrate beside their uprooted stems;

       Thou hast met the rider of the ocean,

       The tall, the strong bark of the fearless rover,

       And she has struck to thee the topsail

       That she had not veiled to a royal armada;

       Thou hast met the tower that bears its crest among the clouds.

       The battled massive tower of the Jarl of former days,

       And the copestone of the turret Is lying upon its hospitable hearth;

       But thou too shalt stoop, proud compeller of clouds,

       When thou hearest the voice of the Reimkennar.

       3

      There are verses that can stop the stag in the forest,

       Ay, and when the darkcoloured dog is opening on his track;

       There are verses can make the wild hawk pause on the wing,

       Like the falcon that wears the hood and the jesses,

       And who knows the shrill whistle of the fowler.

       And who canst mock at the scream of the drowning mariner,

       And the crash of the ravaged forest, And the groan of the overwhelmed crowds,

       When the church hath fallen in the moment of prayer,

       There are sounds which thou also must list,

       When they are chanted by the voice of the Reimkennar.

       4

      “Enough of woe hast thou wrought on the ocean,

       The widows wring their hands on the beach;

       Enough of woe hast thou wrought on the land,

       The husbandman folds his arms in despair;

       Cease thou the waving of thy pinions,

       Let the ocean repose in her dark strength;

       Cease thou the flashing of thine eye.

       Let the thunderbolt sleep in the armoury of Odin;

       Be thou still at my bidding, viewless racer of the north-western heaven.

       Sleep thou at the voice of Norna the Reimkennar!”

      We have said that Mordaunt was naturally fond of romantic poetry and romantic situation; it is not therefore surprising that he listened with interest to the wild address thus uttered to the wildest wind of the compass, in a tone of such dauntless enthusiasm. But though he had heard so much of the Runic rhyme and of the northern spell, in the country where he had so long dwelt, he was not on this occasion so credulous as to believe that the tempest, which had raged so lately, and which was now beginning to decline, was subdued before the charmed verse of Norna. Certain it was, that the blast seemed passing away, and the apprehended danger was already over; but it was not improbable that this issue had been for some time foreseen by the Pythoness, through signs of the weather imperceptible to those who had not dwelt long in the country, or had not bestowed on the meteorological phenomena the attention of a strict and close observer. Of Norna’s experience he had no doubt, and that went a far way to explain what seemed supernatural in her demeanour. Yet still the noble countenance, half-shaded by dishevelled tresses, the air of majesty with which, in a tone of menace as well as of command, she addressed the viewless spirit of the tempest, gave him a strong inclination to believe in the ascendency of the occult arts over the powers of nature; for, if a woman ever moved on earth to whom such authority over the ordinary laws of the universe could belong, Norna of Fitful Head, judging from bearing, figure, and face, was born to that high destiny.

      The rest of the company were less slow in receiving conviction. To Tronda and the jagger none was necessary; they had long believed in the full extent of Norna’s authority over the elements. But Triptolemus and his sister gazed at each other with wondering and alarmed looks, especially when the wind began perceptibly to decline, as was remarkably visible during the pauses which Norna made betwixt the strophes of her incantation. A long silence followed the last verse, until Norna resumed her chant, but with a changed and more soothing modulation of voice and tune.

      “Eagle of the far north-western waters,

       Thou hast heard the voice of the Reimkennar,

       Thou hast closed thy wide sails at her bidding,

       And folded them in peace by thy side.

       My blessing be on thy retiring path!

       When thou stoopest from thy place on high,

       Soft be thy slumbers in the caverns of the unknown ocean,

       Rest till destiny shall again awaken thee;

       Eagle of the northwest, thou hast heard the voice of the

       Reimkennar!”

       “A pretty sang that would be to keep the corn from shaking in har’st,” whispered the agriculturist to his sister; “we must speak her fair, Baby — she will maybe part with the secret for a hundred pund Scots.”

      “An hundred fules’ heads!” replied Baby — ” bid her five merks of ready siller. I never knew a witch in my life but she was as poor as Job.”

      Norna turned towards them as if she had guessed their thoughts; it may be that she did so. She passed them with a look of the most sovereign contempt, and walking to the table on which the preparations for Mrs. Barbara’s frugal meal were already disposed, she filled a small wooden quaigh from an earthen pitcher which contained bland, a subacid liquor made out of the serous part of the milk. She broke a single morsel from a barley-cake, and having eaten and drunk, returned towards the churlish hosts. “ I give you no thanks,” she said, “ for my refreshment, for you bid me not welcome to it; and thanks bestowed on a churl are like the dew of heaven on the cliffs of Foulah, where it finds nought that can be refreshed by its influences. I give you no thanks,” she said again, but drawing from her pocket a leathern purse that seemed large and heavy, she added, “ I pay you with what you will value more than the gratitude of the whole inhabitants of Hialtland. Say not that Norna of Fitful Head hath eaten of your bread and drunk of your cup, and left you sorrowing for the charge to which she hath put your house.” So saying, she laid on the table a small piece of antique gold coin, bearing the rude and half-defaced effigies of some ancient northern king.

      Triptolemus and his sister exclaimed against this liberality with vehemence; the first protesting that he kept no public, and the other exclaiming, “ Is the carline mad? Heard ye ever of ony of the gentle house of Clinkscale that gave meat for siller?”

      “Or for love either?” muttered her brother; “ haud to that, tittie.”

      “What are ye whittie-whattieing about, ye gowk?” said his gentle sister, who suspected the tenor of his murmurs; “ gie the ladie back her bonnie-die there, and be blithe to be sae rid on’t — it will be a sclate-stane the morn, if not something worse.”

      The honest factor lifted the money to return it, yet could not help being struck when he saw the impression, and his hand trembled as he handed it to his sister.

      “Yes.” said the Pythoness again, as if she read the thoughts of the astonished pair, “you have seen that coin before — beware how you use it! It thrives not with the sordid or the mean-souled — it was won with honourable danger, and must be expended with honourable liberality. The treasure which lies under a cold hearth will one day, like the hidden talent, bear witness against its avaricious possessors.”

      This last obscure intimation seemed to raise the alarm and the wonder of Mrs. Baby and her brother to the uttermost. The latter tried to stammer out something