'Still restless as a second Cain,
To Scotland next my route was ta'en, 210
Full well the paths I knew.
Fame of my fate made various sound,
That death in pilgrimage I found,
That I had perish'd of my wound,--
None cared which tale was true: 215
And living eye could never guess
De Wilton in his Palmer's dress;
For now that sable slough is shed,
And trimm'd my shaggy beard and head,
I scarcely know me in the glass. 220
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, 225
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; 230
But in my bosom muster'd Hell
Its plans of dark revenge.