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- Вальтер Скотт
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- Стр. 231/364
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"
Well
,
"
answered
the
Templar
,
"
an
thou
wilt
tarry
there
,
remember
I
have
redeemed
word
and
glove
.
Be
the
hawks
where
they
will
,
methinks
the
walls
of
the
Preceptory
of
Templestowe
will
be
cover
sufficient
,
and
thither
will
I
,
like
heron
to
her
haunt
.
"
Having
thus
spoken
,
he
galloped
off
with
his
followers
.
Those
of
the
castle
who
had
not
gotten
to
horse
,
still
continued
to
fight
desperately
with
the
besiegers
,
after
the
departure
of
the
Templar
,
but
rather
in
despair
of
quarter
than
that
they
entertained
any
hope
of
escape
.
The
fire
was
spreading
rapidly
through
all
parts
of
the
castle
,
when
Ulrica
,
who
had
first
kindled
it
,
appeared
on
a
turret
,
in
the
guise
of
one
of
the
ancient
furies
,
yelling
forth
a
war-song
,
such
as
was
of
yore
raised
on
the
field
of
battle
by
the
scalds
of
the
yet
heathen
Saxons
.
Her
long
dishevelled
grey
hair
flew
back
from
her
uncovered
head
;
the
inebriating
delight
of
gratified
vengeance
contended
in
her
eyes
with
the
fire
of
insanity
;
and
she
brandished
the
distaff
which
she
held
in
her
hand
,
as
if
she
had
been
one
of
the
Fatal
Sisters
,
who
spin
and
abridge
the
thread
of
human
life
.
Tradition
has
preserved
some
wild
strophes
of
the
barbarous
hymn
which
she
chanted
wildly
amid
that
scene
of
fire
and
of
slaughter
:
--
1
.
Whet
the
bright
steel
,
Sons
of
the
White
Dragon
!
Kindle
the
torch
,
Daughter
of
Hengist
!
The
steel
glimmers
not
for
the
carving
of
the
banquet
,
