"Shall I visit thee again?" said he, as he hurried along the beetling
craigs; "Ellerslie! Ellerslie," cried he; "'tis no hero, no triumphant
warrior, that approaches! Receive--shelter thy deserted, widowed
master! I come, my Marion, to mourn thee in thine own domains!"
He flew forward; he ascended the cliffs; he rushed down the
hazel-crowned pathway--but it was no longer smooth; thistles, and
thickly-interwoven underwood, obstructed his steps. Breaking through
them all, he turned the angle of the rock--the last screen between him
and the view of his once beloved home. On this spot he used to stand
on moonlight evenings, watching the graceful form of his Marion, as she
passed to and fro within her chamber. His eyes now turned
instinctively to the point, but it gazed on vacancy. His home had
disappeared: one solitary tower alone remained, standing like "a
hermit, the last of his race," to mourn over the desolation of all by
which it had once been surrounded. Not a human being now moved on the
spot which, three years before, was thronged with his grateful vassals.
Not a voice was now heard, where then sounded the harp of
Halbert--where breathed the soul-entrancing song of his beloved Marion!
"Death!" cried he, striking his breast, "how many ways hast thou to
bereave poor mortality! All, all gone! My Marion sleeps in Bothwell:
the faithful Halbert at her feet.
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