“Still restless as a second Cain,
To Scotland next my route was ta’en,
Full well the paths I knew.
Fame of my fate made various sound,
That death in pilgrimage I found,
That I had perished of my wound—
None cared which tale was true:
And living eye could never guess
De Wilton in his palmer’s dress;
For now that sable slough is shed,
And trimmed my shaggy beard and head,
I scarcely know me in the glass.
A chance most wondrous did provide
That I should be that baron’s guide—
I will not name his name!—
Vengeance to God alone belongs;
But when I think on all my wrongs,
My blood is liquid flame!
And ne’er the time shall I forget,
When, in a Scottish hostel set,
Dark looks we did exchange:
What were his thoughts I cannot tell;
But in my bosom mustered Hell
Its plans of dark revenge.
