Then, from a rusted iron hook, A bunch of ponderous keys he took, Lighted a torch, and Allan led Through grated arch and passage dread.

Portals they passed, where, deep within, Spoke prisoner's moan and fetters' din;Through rugged vaults, where, loosely stored, Lay wheel, and axe, and headsmen's sword, And many a hideous engine grim, For wrenching joint and crushing limb, By artists formed who deemed it shame And sin to give their work a name.

They halted at a Iow-browed porch, And Brent to A]lan gave the torch, While bolt and chain he backward rolled, And made the bar unhasp its hold.

They entered:--'twas a prison-room Of stern security and gloom, Yet not a dungeon; for the day Through lofty gratings found its way, And rude and antique garniture Decked the sad walls and oaken floor, Such as the rugged days of old Deemed fit for captive noble's hold.

'Here,' said De Brent, 'thou mayst remain Till the Leech visit him again.

Strict is his charge, the,warders tell, To tend the noble prisoner well.'

Retiring then the bolt he drew, And the lock's murmurs growled anew.

Roused at the sound, from lowly bed A captive feebly raised his head.

The wondering Minstrel looked, and knew--

Not his dear lord, but Roderick Dhu!

For, come from where Clan-Alpine fought, They, erring, deemed the Chief he sought.