 CHAPTER 24 THE GREAT TOWER When Wallace withdrew, Lady Marr, who had detained Murray, whispered to him, while a blush stained her cheek, that she should like to be present at the planting of the standard. Lord Marr declared his willingness to accompany her to the spot, and added, I can be supported thither by the arm of Andrew. Murray hesitated. It will be impossible for my aunt to go. The hall below and the ground before the tower are covered with slain. Let them be cleared away, cried she, for I cannot consent to be deprived of a spectacle so honourable to my country. Murray regarded the pitiless indifference with which she gave this order with amazement. To do that, madam, he said he, is beyond my power. The whole ceremony of the colours would be completed long before I could clear the earth of half its bleeding load. I will seek a passage for you by some other way. Before the Earl could make a remark, Murray had disappeared, and after exploring the lower part of the tower in unavailing search for a way, he met Sir Roger Kirkpatrick, issuing from a small door, which, being in shadow, he had hitherto overlooked. It led through the ballium to the platform before the citadel. Lord Andrew returned to his uncle and aunt, and informing them of this discovery gave his arm to Lord Marr, while Kirkpatrick led forward the agitated countess. At this moment, the sun rose behind the purple summit of Ben Lamont. When they approached the citadel, Wallace and Sir Alexander Scrimger had just gained its summit. The standard of Edward was yet flying. Wallace looked at it for a moment, then, laying his hand on the staff, down thou red dragon cried he, and learned to bow before the giver of all victory. Even while speaking he rented from the roof, and casting it over the battlements planted the Lion of Scotland in its stead. As its vast evolvements floated on the air, the cry of triumph, the loud clarion of honest triumph burst from every heart, horn, and trumpet below. It was a shout that pierced the skies, and entered the soul of Wallace with a bliss which seemed a promise of immortality. Oh, God cried he, still grasping the staff, and looking up to heaven. We got not this in possession through our own might, but thy right hand, and the light of thy countenance over through the enemy, thine the conquest, thine the glory. Thus we consecrate the day to thee, power of heaven, rejoined Scrimger, and let this standard be thine own, and wither so ever we bear it, may we ever find it as the Ark of our God. Wallace, feeling as if no eye looked on them but that of heaven, dropped on his knee, and rising again took Sir Alexander by the hand. My brave friend said he, We have here planted the tree of freedom in Scotland. Should I die in its defense, swear to bury me under its branches, swear that no enslaved ground shall cover my remains. I swear, cried Scrimger, laying his crossed hands upon the arm of Wallace, I swear with a double vow, by the blood of my brave ancestors whose valor gave me the name I bear, by the cross of St. Andrew, and by your valiant self, never to sheave my sword while I have life in my body, until Scotland be entirely free. The colours fixed, Wallace and his brave colleague descended the tower, and perceiving the Earl and Countess, who sat on a stone bench at the end of the platform, approached them. The Countess rose as the chiefs drew near. Lord Maher took his friend by the hand with a gratulation in his eyes that was unutterable. His lady spoke, hardly conscious of what she said, and Wallace, after a few minutes' discourse, proposed to the Earl to retire with Lady Maher into the Citadel, where she would be more suitably lodged than in their late prison. Lord Maher was obeying this movement when suddenly stopping, he exclaimed. But where is that wondrous boy, your pilot, over these perilous rocks? Let me give him a soldier's thanks. Happy it's so grateful a demand, Wallace beckoned Edwin, who just relieved from his guard was standing at some distance. Here, Citie, is my knight of fifteen, for last night he proved himself more worthy of his spurs than many a man who has received them from a king. He shall wear those of a king, rejoined the Lord Maher, unbuckling from his feet a pair of golden spurs. These were fastened on my heels by our great King Alexander at the Battle of Largs. I had intended them for my only son, but the first night in the cause of rescued Scotland is the son of my heart and my soul. As he spoke he would have pressed the young hero to his breast, but Edwin, trembling with emotion, slid down upon his knees and, clasping the earl's hand, said, in a hardly audible voice, receive and pardon the truant son of your sister Ruthfyn. What, exclaimed the veteran, is it Edwin Ruthfyn that has brought me this weight of honour? Come to my arms, thou dearest child of my dearest Janet. The uncle and nephew were folded in each other's embrace. The Maher wept, and Wallace, unable to bear the remembrance which such a scene pressed upon his heart, turned away toward the battlements. Edwin murmured a short explanation in the ear of his uncle, and then rising from his arms, with his beautiful face glittering like an April day in tears, allowed his gay cousin Murray to buckle the royal spurs on his feet. The right over he kissed Lord Andrew's hand in token of acknowledgement, and called on Sir William Wallace to bless the new honours conferred on his night. Wallace turned toward Edwin, with a smile which partook more of heaven than of earth. Have we not performed our mutual promises, said he? I brought you to the spot where you were to reveal your name, and you have declared it to me by the voice of glory. Come then, my brother, let us leave your uncle awhile to seek his repose. As he spoke he bowed to the countess, and Edwin joyfully receiving his arm they walked together toward the eastern postern. Agitated with the delightful surprise of thus meeting his favourite sister's son, whom he had never seen since his infancy, and exhausted by the variety of his late emotions, the earl speedily acquiesced in a proposal for rest, and leaning on Lord Andrew proceeded to the citadel. The countess had other attractions, lingering at the side of the rough night of Tortharald. She looked back, and when she saw the object of her gaze disappear through the gates, she sighed, and turning to her conductor, walked by him in silence till they joined her husband in the Hall of the Keep. Murray led the way into the apartments, lately occupied by de Valence. They were furnished with all the luxury of a southern nobleman. Lady Mara cast her eyes around the splendid chamber, and seated herself on one of its tapestry couches. The earl, not marking whether it were silk or rushes, placed himself beside her. Murray drew a stool toward them, while Kirkpatrick, tired of his gallant duty, abruptly took his leave. My dear Andrew, said the earl, in the midst of this proud rejoicing, there is yet a canker at my heart. Tell me, that when my beloved Helen disappeared in the tumult at Bathwell, she was under your protection? She was, replied Murray, and I thank the holy Saint Philand that she is now in the sanctuary of his church. Murray then recounted to his relieved uncle every event from the moment of his withdrawing behind the heiress, to that of his confiding the English soldier with the iron box to the care of the prior. Lord Mara sighed heavily when he spoke of that mysterious casket. Whatever it contained, said he, it has drawn after it much evil and much good. The domestic peace of Wallace was ruined by it, and the spirit which now restores Scotland to herself was raised by his wrongs. But tell me, added he, do you think my daughter's safe so near a garrison of the enemy? Surely, my Lord, cried the Countess, too well remembering the enthusiasm with which Helen had regarded even the unknown Wallace. Surely you would not bring that tender child into a scene like this. Rather, send a messenger to convey her secretly to Thurlistan, at that distance she will be safe, and under the powerful protection of her grandfather. The Earl acquiesced in her opinion, and saying he would consult with Wallace about the secure mode of travel for his daughter, again turned to Lord Andrew to learn further of their late proceedings. But the Countess, still uneasy, once more interrupted him. Alas, my Lord, what would you do? His generous zeal will offer to go in person for your daughter. We know not what dangers he might then incur, and surely the champion of Scotland is not to be thrown into peril for any domestic concern. If you really feel the weight of the evils into which you have plunged Sir William Wallace, do not increase it by even hinting to him the present subject of your anxiety. My aunt is an oracle, presumed Murray. Allow me to be the happy knight that is to bear the surrender of Dumbarton to my sweet cousin. Prevail on Wallace to remain in this garrison till I return, and then full-tilt for the walls of old Stirling and the downfall of Huey Cresingham. Both the Countess and the Earl were pleased with this arrangement. The latter, by the persuasions of his nephew, retired into an inner chamber to repose, and the former desired Lord Andrew to inform Wallace that she should expect to be honoured with his presence at noon to partake of such fare as the garrison afforded. On Murray's coming from the citadel, he learned that Wallace was gone toward the Great Tower. He followed him thither, and on issuing from the poster in which led to that part of the rock, saw the chief standing with his helmet off in the midst of the slain. "'This is a sorry sight,' said he, to Murray, as he approached, but it shall not long lie thus exposed. I have just ordered that these sad wrecks of human strife may be lowered into the Clyde. Its rushing stream will soon carry them to a quiet grave beneath the unpeaceful sea.' His own dead, amounting to no more than fifteen, were to be buried at the foot of the rock, a prisoner in the castle having described steps in the cliff by which the solemnity could easily be performed. "'But why, my dear commander,' cried Lord Andrew, "'why do you take any thought about our enemies? Leave them where they are, and the eagles of our mountains will soon find them graves.' "'For shame, Murray,' was the reply of Wallace, "'they are dead, and our enemies no more. They are men like ourselves, and shall we deny them a place in that earth whence we all sprung? We war not with human nature. Are we not rather the assertors of her rights?' "'I know,' replied Lord Andrew, blushing, "'that I am often the assertor of my own folly, and I do not know how you will forgive my inconsiderate impertinence.' "'Because it was inconsiderate,' replied Wallace, "'in humanity is too stern a guest to live in such a breast as yours.' "'If I ever give her quarters,' replied Murray, "'I should most woefully disgrace the companion she must meet there. "'Next to the honour of Fair Scotland, my cousin Helen is the goddess of my idolatry, and she would foreswear my love and kindred, could she believe me capable of feeling otherwise than in unison with Sir William Wallace?' "'Wallace looked toward him with a benign pleasure in his countenance. "'Your fair cousin does me honour.' "'Ah, my noble friend,' cried Murray, lowering his gay tone to one of softer expression, "'if you knew all the goodness, all the nobleness that dwells in her gentle heart, you would indeed esteem her. You would love her as I do.' The blood fled from the cheek of Wallace. "'Not as you do, Murray. I can no more love a woman as you love her. Such scenes as these,' cried he, turning to the mangled bodies which the men were now carrying away to the precipice of the Clyde, have divorced women's love for my heart. "'I am all my countries, or I am nothing.' "'Nothing,' reiterated Murray, laying his hand upon that of Wallace, as it rested upon the hilt of the sword on which he leaned. "'Is the friend of mankind, the champion of Scotland, the beloved of a thousand valuable hearts, nothing? Nay, art thou not the agent of heaven to be the scourge of a tyrant? Art thou not the deliverer of thy country?' Wallace turned his bright eye upon Murray with an expression of mangled feelings. "'May I be all this, my friend, and Wallace must yet be happy. But speak not to me of love and woman. Tell me not of those endearing qualities I have prized too tenderly, and which are now buried to me forever, beneath the ashes of Ellersley.' "'Not under the ashes of Ellersley,' cried Murray, sleep the remains of your lovely wife.' Wallace's penetrating eye turned quick upon him. Murray continued. "'My cousin's pitying soul stretched itself toward them. By her directions they were brought from your oratory in the rock, and deposited with all holy rites in the cemetery at Bothwell. The glow that now animated the before-chilled heart of Wallace overspread his face. His eyes spoke volumes of gratitude. His lips moved, but his feelings were too big for utterance, and fervently pressing the hand of Murray to conceal emotions ready to just shake his manhood, he turned away and walked toward the cliff. When all the slain were lowered to their last beds, a young priest, who came in the company of Scrimger, gave the funeral benediction both to the departed and the waves, and those whom the shore had received. The rites over Murray again drew near to Wallace and delivered his aunt's message. "'I shall obey her commands,' returned he, but first we must visit our wounded prisoners in the tower.' Above three hundred of them had been discovered amongst the dead. Murray gladly obeyed the impulse of his leader's arm, and followed by the chieftains returned from the late solemn duty, they entered the tower. Ireland welcomed Wallace with the intelligence that he hoped had suckered friends instead of foes, for that most of the prisoners were poor Welsh peasants whom Edward had torn from their mountains to serve in his legions, and a few Irish who in the heat of blood and eagerness for adventure had enlisted in his ranks. "'I have shown to them,' continued Ireland, what fools they are to injure themselves in us. I told the Welsh they were clinching their own chains by assisting to extend the dominion of their conqueror, and I have convinced the Irish they were forging fetters for themselves by lending their help to enslave their brother-nation, the free-worn Scots. They only require your presence, my Lord, to forswear their former leaders, and to enlist under Scottish banners. "'Thou art an able orator, my good Stephen,' returned Wallace, and whatever promises thou hast made to honest men in the name of Scotland we are ready to ratify them. Is it not so?' added he, turning to Kirkpatrick and Scrimgeor. "'All as you will,' replied they in one voice. "'Yes,' added Kirkpatrick, you were the first to rise for Scotland, and who but you has a right to command for her?' Ireland threw open the door which led into the hall, and there on the ground, on pallets of straw, lay most of the wounded Sutherans. Some of their dim-dyes had discerned their preserver when he discovered them expiring on the rock, and on sight of him now they uttered such a piercing cry of gratitude that surprised he stood for a moment. In that moment five or six of the poor wounded wretches crawled to his feet. Our friend, our preserver, burst from their lips as they kissed the edge of his plaid. "'Not to me, not to me,' exclaimed Wallace, I am a soldier like yourselves. I have only acted a soldier's part, but I am a soldier of freedom, you of a tyrant who seeks to enslave the world. This makes the difference between us. This lays you at my feet, when I would more willingly receive you into my arms as brothers in one generous cause. We are yours,' was the answering exclamation of those who knelt, and of those who raised their feebler voices from their beds of straw. A few only remained silent. With many kind expressions of acceptance, Wallace disengaged himself from those who clung around him, and then moved toward the sick who seemed too ill to speak. While repeating the same consolatory language to them, he particularly observed an old man who was lying between two young ones, and still kept profound silence. His rough features were marked with many a scar, but there was a meek resignation in her face that powerfully struck Wallace. When the chief drew near, the veteran raised himself on his arm and bowed his head with a respectful air. Wallace stopped. "'You are an Englishman?' "'I am, sir, and have no services to offer you. These two young men on each side of me are my sons. Their brother I lost last night in the conflict. Today, by your mercy, not only my life is preserved, but my two remaining children also. Yet I am an Englishman, and I cannot be grateful at the expense of my allegiance.' "'Nor would I require it of you,' returned Wallace. "'These brave Welsh and Irish were brought hither by the invader who subjugates their countries. They owe him no duty. But you are a free subject of England. He that is a tyrant over others can only be a king to you. He must be the guardian of your laws, the defender of your liberties, or his scepter falls. Having sworn to follow a sovereign, so plighted, I am not severe enough to condemn you, because misled by that phantom which he calls glory, you have suffered him to betray you into unjust conquests. Once I have been so misled, returned the old man, but I never will again. Fifty years I have fought under the British standard, in Normandy and in Palestine, and now in my old age with four sons I followed the armies of my sovereign into Scotland. My eldest I lost on the plains of Dunbar, my second fell last night, and my two youngest are now by my side. You have saved them and me, what can I do? Not as your noble self says, foreswear my country, but this I swear, and in the oath do you, my sons, join. As he spoke, they laid their crossed hands upon his, in token of assent, never to lift an arm against Sir William Wallace or the cause of injured Scotland. To this we also subjoined, cried several other men, who comprised the whole of the English prisoners. Noble people, cried Wallace, why have you not a king worthy of you? And yet, observed Kirkpatrick, in a surly tone, Hestleriga was one of these people. Wallace turned upon him with the looks of so tremendous a meaning, that awed by an expression too mighty for him to comprehend, he fell back a few paces, muttering curses, but on whom could not be heard. That man would arouse the tiger in our lion-hearted chief, whispered Scrimgeor to Murray. I, returned Lord Andrew, but the royal spirit keeps the beast in awe. See how coweringly that bold spirit now bows before it. Wallace marked the impression his glance had made, but where he had struck, being unwilling to pierce also. He dispelled the thunder from his countenance, and once more looked on Sir Roger with frank serenity. Come, said he, my good night. You must not be more tenacious for William Wallace than he is for himself. While he possesses such a zealous friend as Kirkpatrick of Tortherald, he need not now fear the arms of a thousand Hestlerigas. No, nor of Edwards either, cried Kirkpatrick, once more looking boldly up and shaking his broad claymore. My thistle has a point to sting all to death who would pass between this arm and my leader's breast. May heaven long preserve the valiant Wallace was the prayer of every feeble voice, as he left the hall to visit his own wounded in an upper chamber. The interview was short and satisfactory. Ah, Sir, cried one of them, I cannot tell how it is, but when I see you I feel as if I beheld the very soul of my country, or its guardian angel, standing before me, a something I cannot describe, but it fills me with courage and comfort. You see an honest scot standing before you, my good Duncan, replied Wallace, and that is no mean personage, for it is one who knows no use of his life but as it fulfills his duty to his country. Oh, that the sound of that voice could penetrate to every ear in Scotland rejoin the soldier, it would be more than the call of the trumpet to bring them to the field. And from the summit of this rock many have already heard it, and more shall be so aroused, cried Murray, returning from the door to which one of his men had beckoned him. Here is a man come to announce that Malcolm, Earl of Lennox, passing by the foot of this rock, saw the Scottish standard flying from its citadel, and as overjoyed as amazed at the sight, he sends to request the confidence of being admitted. Let me bring him hither, interrupted Kirkpatrick, he is brave as the day, and will be a noble auxiliary. Every true scot must be welcome to these walls, returned Wallace. Kirkpatrick hastened from the tower to the northern side of the rock, at the foot of which stood the Earl and his train. With all the pride of a freeman and a victor, Sir Roger descended the height. Lennox advanced to meet him. What is it I see, Sir Roger Kirkpatrick, master of this citadel, and our king's colors flying from its towers? Where is the Earl de Valence? Where are the English garrison? The English garrison, replied Kirkpatrick, are now twelve hundred men beneath the waters of the Clyde. De Valence has fled, and this fortress, manned with a few hearty scots, shall sink into yawn waves, ere it again bear the English dragon on its walls. And you, noble knight, cried Lennox, have achieved all this? You are the dawn to a blessed day for Scotland. No, replied Kirkpatrick, I am but a follower of the man who has struck the blow. Sir William Wallace of Ellersley is our chief, and with the power of his virtues he subdues not only friends but enemies to his command. He then exultingly narrated the happy events of the last four and twenty hours. The Earl listened with wonder and joy. What, cried he, so noble a plan for Scotland, and I ignorant of it? I that have not waked day or night for many a month without thinking or dreaming of some enterprise to free my country, and behold it is achieved in a moment. I see this stroke as a bolt from heaven, and I pray heaven it may light the sacrifice throughout the nation. Lead me, worthy knight, lead me to your chief, for he shall be mine too. He shall command Malcolm Lennox and all his clan. Kirkpatrick gladly turned to obey him, and they mounted the assent together. Within the Barbican gate stood Wallace, with Scrimger and Murray. The Earl knew Scrimger well, having seen him often in the field as hereditary standard-bearer of the kingdom. Of the persons of the others he was ignorant. There is Wallace, exclaimed Kirkpatrick. Not one of those very young men interrogated the Earl. Even so was the answer of the knight. But his is the youth of the brave son of Ammon. Grey beards are glad to bow before his golden locks, for beneath them is wisdom. And as he spoke they entered the Barbican, and Wallace, whom the penetrating eye of Lennox had already singled out for the chief, advanced to meet his guest. Earl said he, you are welcome to Dunbarton Castle. Bravest of my countrymen returned Lennox, clasping him in his arms. Receive a soldier's embrace. Receive the gratitude of a loyal heart, accept my service, my arms, my men, my all I devote to Scotland and the great cause. Wallace for a moment did not answer. But warmly straining the Earl to his breast, said, as he released him, such support will give sinews to our power. A few months, and with the blessing of that arm which has already mowed down the ranks which opposed us, we shall see Scotland at liberty. And may heaven, brave Wallace, exclaimed Lennox, grant us thine arm to wield his scythe. And how have you accomplished this? How have your few overthrown this English host? He strikes home when right points his sword, replied Wallace. The injuries of Scotland were my guide and justice, my companion. We feared nothing, for God was with us. We feared nothing, and in his might we conquered. And shall yet conquer, cried Lennox, kindling with the enthusiasm that blazed from the eyes of Wallace. I feel the strength of our cause, and from this hour I devote myself to assert it, or to die. Not to die, my noble lord, said Murray. We have yet many an eve to dance over the buried fetters of Scotland, and as the beginning of our jollities I must remind our leader that my aunt's board awaits him. Lord Lennox understood from this address. It was the brave Murray who spoke to him, for he had heard sufficient from Sir Roger Kirkpatrick to explain how the Countess of Marr and her patriot husband came within those walls. The Countess, having arrayed herself with all her powers to receive her deliverer, awaited the hour of his arrival with an emotion at her heart, which made it bound against her bosom, when she saw the object of her splendid toil advancing along the courtyard. All others were lost to her impatient eyes, and hastily rising from the window as the chiefs entered the porch, she crossed the room to meet them at the door. The Earl of Lennox stood amazed at sight of so much beauty and splendor in such a scene. Lady Marr had hardly attained her thirty-fifth year, but from the graces of her person and the address with which she set forth all her charms, the enchanted gazer found it impossible to suppose her more than three or four and twenty. Thus happily informed by nature, and habited in a suit of velvet, overlaid with cypress work of gold, blazing with jewels about her head and her feet clad in silver-fretted sandals, Lennox thought she looked more like some triumphant queen than a wife who had so lately shared captivity with an outlawed husband. Murray started at such unexpected magnificence in his aunt, but Wallace scarcely observed it was anything unusual, and bowing to her presented the Earl of Lennox. She smiled, and saying a few words of welcome to the Earl gave her hand to Wallace to lead her back into the chamber. Lord Marr had risen from his seat and leaning upon his sword, for his warlike arm refused any other staff, stood up upon their entrance. At sight of Lord Lennox he uttered an exclamation of glad surprise. Lennox embraced him. I too him come to enlist under the banners of this young Leonidas. God armeth the Patriot was all them reply that Marr made, while the big tears rolled over his cheek, and he shook him by the hand. I have four hundred stout Lennox men continued the Earl, who by tomorrow's eve shall be ready to follow our leader to the very borders. Not so soon, interrupted the Countess, our Deliverer needs repose. I thank your benevolence, Lady Marr, returned Wallace, but the issue of last night, and the sight of Lord Lennox this day with the promise of so great a support, are such elements that we must go forward. I, to be sure, joined Kirkpatrick, Dumbarton was not taken during our sleep, and if we stay loitering here, the devil that holds Stirling Castle may follow the scent of de Valence, and so I lose my prey. What? cried the Countess, and is my Lord to be left again to his enemies? Sir William Wallace, I should have thought. Everything, madame, rejoined he, that is demonstrative of my devotion to your venerable Lord, but with a brave garrison I hope you will consider him safe here, until a wider range of security be won to enable you to retire to Braymar. As the apostrophe to Wallace in the latter part of the Countess's speech had been addressed to himself in a rather low voice, his reply was made in a similar tone, so that Lord Marr did not hear any part of the answer, except the concluding words. But then he exclaimed, Nay, my ever fearful Joanna, are thou making objections to keeping garrison here? I confess, replied Wallace, that an armed citadel is not the most pleasant abode for a lady, but at present, accepting perhaps the church, it is the safest, and I would not advise your lady to remove hence until the plane be made as free as this mountain. The sewer now announced the board in the hall, and the Countess, leading the way, reluctantly gave her hand to the Earl of Lennox. Lord Marr leaned on the arm of Wallace, who was followed by Edwin and the other chieftains. CHAPTER XXV. THE CITIDEL. During the rear-pass, the Countess often fixed her unrestrained gaze on the manly, yet youthful countenance of the heroic Wallace. His plumed helmet was now laid aside, and the heavy corselet unbuckled from his breast, disclosing the symmetry of his fine form, left its graceful movements to be displayed with advantage by the flexible folds of his simple tartan vest. Was it the formidable Wallace she looked on, bathed in the blood of Heselriga, and breathing vengeance against the adherents of the tyrant Edward? It was, then, the enemy of her kinsmen of the House of Cummon. It was the man for whom her husband had embraced so many dangers. It was the man whom she had denounced to one of those kinsmen, and whom she had betrayed to the hazard of an ignominious death. But where now was the fierce rebel, the ruiner of her peace, the outlaw whom she had wished in his grave? The last idea was distraction. She could have fallen at his feet, and bathing them with her tears, have implored his pity and forgiveness. Even as the wish sprung in her mind she asked herself, Did he know all? Could he pardon such a weight of injuries? She cast her eyes with a wild expression upon his face. The mildness of heaven was there, and the peace, too, she might have thought, had not his eye carried a chastened sadness in its look, which told that something dire and sorrowful was buried deep within. It was a look that dissolved the soul which gazed on it. The Countess felt her heart throb violently. At that moment Wallis addressed a few words to her, but she knew not what they were. Her soul was in tumult, and a mist passed over her sight, which for a moment seemed to wrap all her senses in a trance. The unconscious object of these emotions bowed to her our inarticulate reply, supposing that the mingling voices of others had made him hear hers indistinctly. Lady Marr found her situation so strange, and her agitation so inexplicable, that feeling it impossible to remain longer without giving way to a burst of tears, she rose from her seat, and forcing a smile with her courtesy to the company left the room. On gaining the upper apartment she threw herself upon the nearest couch, and striking her breast exclaimed, What is this within me? How does my soul seem to pour itself out to this man? Oh, how does it extend itself as if it would absorb his, even at my eyes? Only twelve hours, hardly twelve hours have I seen this William Wallace, and yet my very being is now lost in his. While thus speaking she covered her face with her handkerchief, but no tears now started to be wiped away. The fire in her veins dried the source, and with burning blushes she rose from her seat. Fatal, fatal hour, why didst thou come here, too infatuating Wallace, to rob me of my peace? Oh, why did I ever look on that face? For rather, blessed saints, cried she, clasping her hands in wild passion, why did I ever shackle this hand? Why did I ever render such a sacrifice necessary? Wallace is now free. Had I been free? But wretch, wretch, wretch, I could tear out this betrayed heart. I could trample on that of the infatuated husband that made me such a slave. She gasped for breath, and again, seating herself, reclined her beating temples against the couch. She was now silent, but thoughts not less intense, not less fraught, with her self-approach and anguish occupied her mind. Should this God of her idolatry ever discover that it was her information which had sent Earl de Valance's men to surround him in the mountains, should he ever learn that at Bathwell she had betrayed the cause on which he had set his life, she felt that moment would be her last. For now, to sate her eyes with gazing on him, to hear the sound of his voice, to receive his smiles seemed to her a joy she could only surrender with her existence. What then was the prospect of so soon losing him, even to crown himself with honour, but to her a living death? To defer his departure was all her study, all her hope. And fearful that his restless valour might urge him to accompany Murray in his intended convoy of Helen to the tweed, she determined to persuade her nephew to set off without the knowledge of his general. She did not allow that it was the youthful beauty, and more lovely mind of her daughter-in-law which she feared. Even to herself she cloaked her alarm under the plausible excuse of care for the chieftain's safety. Composed by this mental arrangement, her disturbed features became smooth, and with even a sedate air she received her lord and his brave friends when they soon after entered the chamber. But the object of her wishes did not appear. Wallace had taken Lord Lennox to view the dispositions of the fortress. Ill-satisfied as she was with his prolonged absence, she did not fail to turn it to advantage, and while her lord and his friends were examining a draft of Scotland which Wallace had sketched after she left the banqueting-room, she took Lord Andrew aside to converse with him on the subject now nearest to her heart. It certainly belongs to me alone, her kinsman and friend, to protect Helen to the tweed if there she must go, returned Murray. But my good lady, I cannot comprehend why I am to lead my fair cousin such a pilgrimage. She is not afraid of heroes. You are safe in Dumbarton, and why not bring her here also? Not for worlds exclaimed the Countess, thrown off her guard. Murray looked at her with surprise. It recalled her to self-possession, and she resumed, So lovely a creature in this castle would be a dangerous magnet. You must have known that it was the hope of obtaining her which attracted the Lord Soulis and Earl de Valance to Bethwell. The whole castle rung with the quarrel of these two lords upon her account when you so fortunately affected her escape. Should it be known that she is here, the same fierce desire of obtaining her would give double incitement to de Valance to recover the place, and the consequences who can answer for. By this argument Murray was persuaded to relinquish the idea of conveying Helen to Dumbarton, but remembering what Wallace had said respecting the safety of a religious sanctuary, he advised that she should be left at St. Philan's till this cause of Scotland might be more firmly established. Send a messenger to inform her of the rescue of Dumbarton, and of your and my uncle's health, continued he, and that will be sufficient to make her happy. That she was not to be thrown in Wallace's way satisfied Lady Marr. And indifferent whether Helen's seclusion were under the eliton tree or the holy rude, she approved Murray's decision. Relieved from apprehension, her face became again dressed in smiles, and with a bounding step she rose to welcome the re-entrance of Wallace with the Earl of Lenox. Absorbed in one thought, every charm she possessed was directed to the same point. She played finely on the lute, and sung with all the grace of her country. What gentle heart was not to be affected by music. She determined it should be one of the spells by which she meant to attract Wallace. She took up one of the lutes, which with other music instruments decorated the apartments of the luxurious de Valence, and touching it with exquisite delicacy, breathed the most pathetic air her memory could dictate. If on the heath she moved, her breast was wider than the down of Canna. If on the sea-beat shore than the foam of the rolling ocean, her eyes were two stars of light, her face was heaven's bow and showers, her dark hair flowed around it, like the streaming clouds, thou wert the dweller of souls, white-handed strenadonna. Wallace rose from his chair, which had been placed near her. She had deigned that these tender words of the bard of Morvan should suggest to her here the observation of her own resembling beauties. But he saw in them only the lovely dweller of his own soul, and walking toward a window stood there with his eyes fixed on the descending sun. So hath set all my joys, so is life to me, a world without a sun, cold, cold and charmless. The Countess vainly believed that some sensibility advantageous to her new passion had caused the agitation with which she saw him depart from her side, and intoxicated with the idea she ran through many a melodious test-cant till, toughing on the first strains of Thusa Hameash Narell John Moore, she saw Wallace start from his contemplative position and with a pale countenance leave the room. There was something in this abruptness which excited the alarm of the Earl of Lenox, who had also been listening to the songs. He rose instantly, and overtaking the chief at the threshold inquired what was the matter. Nothing, answered Wallace, forcing a smile in which the agony of his mind was too truly imprinted. Like music displeased me. With this reply he disappeared. The excuse seemed strange, but it was true, for she whose notes were to him sweeter than the thresh, whose angel strains used to greet his morning and evening hours was silent in the grave. He should no more see her white hand upon the loot. He should no more behold that bosom brighter than foam upon the wave to him. A soulless sound or a direful knell to recall the remembrance of all he had lost. Such were his thoughts when the words of Thousa Hameash rung from Lady Marr's voice. Those were the strains which Halbert used to breathe from his heart to call Mary into her nightly slumbers. Those were the strains with which that faithful servant had announced that she slept to wake no more. What wonder, then, that Wallace fled from the apartment and buried himself and his aroused grief amid the distant solitudes of the Beacon Hill? While looking over the shoulder of his uncle on the station which sterling held amid the Achill Hills, Edwin had, at intervals, cast a side-long glance upon the changing complexion of his commander, and no sooner did he see him hurry from the room, then fearful of some disaster having befallen the garrison, which Wallace did not choose immediately to mention. He also stole out of the apartment. After seeking the object of his anxiety for a long time without avail, he was returning on his steps, when attracted by this splendour of the moon silvering the Beacon Hill, he ascended to once at least tread that eclivity in light which he had so miraculously passed in darkness. Scarce of Zephyr framed the sleeping air. He moved on with a flying step till a deep sigh arrested him. He stopped and listened. It was repeated again and again. He gently drew near and saw a human figure reclining on the ground. The head of the apparent mourner was unbonneted, and the brightness of the moon shone on his polished forehead. Edwin thought the sound of those sighs was the same he had often heard from the object of his search. He walked forward, again the figure sighed but with a depth so full of piercing woe that Edwin hesitated. A cloud had passed over the moon, but sailing off again displayed to the anxious boy that he had indeed drawn very near his friend, who goes there exclaimed Wallace starting on his feet. Your Edwin returned the youth. I feared something wrong had happened when I saw you look so sad and leave the room abruptly. Wallace pressed his hand in silence. Then some evil has befallen you, inquired Edwin, in an agitated voice. You do not speak. Wallace seated himself on a stone and leaned his head upon the hilt of his sword. No new evil has befallen me, Edwin, but there is such a thing as remembrance that stabs deeper than the dagger's point. What remembrance can wound you, my general? The abbot of St. Columba has often told me that memory is a balm to every ill with the good, and have you not been good to all? The benefactor, the preserver of thousands, surely if man can be happy it must be Sir William Wallace. And so I am, my Edwin, when I contemplate the end. But in the interval with all thy sweet philosophy is it not written here that man was made to mourn? He put his hand on his heart, and then, after a short pause, resumed, Doubly I mourn, doubly am I bereaved. For had it not been for an enemy more fell than he who beguiled Adam of Paradise, I might have been a father. I might have lived to have gloried in a son like thee. I might have seen my wedded angel clasp such a blessing to her bosom. But now both are cold in clay. These are the recollections which sometimes draw tears down thy leader's cheeks. And do not believe, brother of my soul, said he, pressing the now weeping Edwin to his breast, that they disgrace his manhood. The son of God wept over the tomb of his friend, and shall I deny a few tears dropped in stealth over the grave of my wife and child? Edwin sobbed aloud, No son could love you dearer than I do. Ah! Let my duty, my affection, teach you to forget you have lost a child. I will replace all to you but your Marian, and her, the pitying son of Mary, will restore to you in the Kingdom of Heaven. Thus looked steadfastly at the young preacher. Out of the mouths of babes we shall hear wisdom. Thine, dear Edwin, I will lay to heart, that shall comfort me when my hermit's soul shuts out all the world besides. Then I am indeed your brother, cried the happy youth. Admit me but to your heart, and no fraternal, no filial tie shall be more strongly linked than mine. What tender affections I can spare from these resplendent regions, answered Wallace, pointing to the skies, are thine. The fervours of my once ardent soul are Scotland's, or I die. But thou art too young, my brother, added he, interrupting himself, to understand all his feelings, all the seeming contradictions of my contending heart. Not so answered Edwin with a modest blush. What was Lady Marian's you now devote to Scotland? The blaze of those affections which were hers would consume your being, did you not pour it forth on your country? Were you not a patriot, grief would pray upon your life. You have read me, Edwin, replied Wallace, and that you may never love too idolatry, learn this also. Though Scotland lay in ruins, I was happy. I felt no captivity while in Marian's arms. Even oppression was forgotten when she made the sufferer's tears cease to flow. She absorbed my thoughts, my wishes, my life, and she was rested from me that I might feel myself a slave, that the iron might enter into my soul with which I was to pull down tyranny and free my country. Mark the sacrifice young man cried Wallace, starting on his feet. It now even smokes, and the flames are here inextinguishable. He struck his hand upon his breast, never love as I have loved, and you will be a patriot without needing to taste my bitter cup. Edwin trembled, his tears were checked. I can love no one better than I do you, my general, and is there any crime in that? Wallace in a moment recovered from the transient wildness which had possessed him. None, my Edwin, replied he, the affections are never criminal, but when by their excess they blind us to other duties. The offence of mine is judged, and I bow to the penalty. When that is paid, then may my ashes sleep in rescued Scotland. Then may the God of victory and of mercy grant that the serif spirits of my wife and infant may meet my pardoned soul in paradise. One wept afresh. See, dear boy, said he, these presages are very comforting. They whisper that the path of glory leads thy brother to his home. As he spoke he took the arm of the silent Edwin, whose sensibility locked up the powers of speech, and putting it through his they descended the hill together. On the open ground before the great tower they were met by Murray. I come to seek you, cried he. We have had woe on woe in the citadel since you left it. Nothing very calamitous returned Wallace, if we may guess by the merry aspect of the messenger. Only a little whirlwind of my aunts, in which we have had airs and showers enough to wet us through and blow us dry again. The conduct of the lady had been even more extravagant than her nephew chose to describe. After the night's departure, when the chiefs entered into conversation respecting his future plans, and Lennox mentioned that when his men should arrive, for whom he had that evening dispatched cur, it was Wallace's intention to march immediately for Sterling. With her, it could hardly be doubted, aimer de Valence had fled. I shall be left here, continued the earl, to assist you, Lord Marr, in the severer duties attendant on being governor of this place. No sooner did these words reach the ears of the countess than, struck with despair, she hastened toward her husband, and earnestly exclaimed, You will not suffer this. No, returned the earl, mistaking her meaning, not being able to perform the duties attendant on the responsibility's station, with which Wallace would honour me, I shall relinquish it altogether to Lord Lennox, and be amply satisfied in finding myself under his protection. Ah, where is protection without Sir William Wallace, cried she. If he go, our enemies will return. Who then will repel them from these walls? Who will defend your wife and only son from falling again into the hands of our doubly incensed foes? Marr observed Lord Lennox's colour at this imputation on his bravery, and shocked at the affront which his unreflecting wife seemed to give so gallant a chief, he hastily replied, Though this wounded arm cannot boast, yet the earl of Lennox is an able representative of our commander. I will die, madam, interrupted Lennox, before anything hostile approaches you or your children. She attended slightly to this pledge, and again addressed her Lord with fresh arguments for the detention of Wallace. Sir Roger Kirkpatrick, impatient under all this foolery, as he justly deemed it, abruptly said, Be assured, fair lady, Israel's Samson was not brought into the world his duty better than allow himself to be tied to any nursery girdle in Christendom. The brave old earl was offended with this roughness, but ere he could so express himself, the object darted her own severe retort on Kirkpatrick, and then, turning to her husband with a hysterical sob, exclaimed, It is well seen what will be my fate when Wallace is gone. Would he have stood by and beheld me thus insulted? Distressed with shame at her conduct and anxious to remove her fears, Lord Maher softly whispered her, and threw his arm about her waist. She thrust him from her. You care not what may become of me, and my heart distains your blandishments. Lennox rose in silence and walked to the other end of the chamber. Sir Roger Kirkpatrick followed him, muttering, pretty audibly, as thanks to St. Andrew that he had never been yoked with a wife. Scrimger and Murray tried to allay the storm in her bosom by circumstantially detailing how the fortress must be equally safe under the care of Lennox as of Wallace, but they discoursed in vain. She was obstinate, and at last left the room in a passion of tears. On the return of Wallace, Lord Lennox advanced to meet him. What shall we do, said he, without you have the witchcraft of Hercules and can be in two places at once, I fear we must either leave the rest of Scotland to fight for itself or never restore peace to this castle. Wallace smiled, but before he could answer, Lady Maher having heard his voice ascending the stairs, suddenly entered the room. She held her infant in her arms. Her air was composed, but her eyes yet shone in tears. At this site Lord Lennox, sufficiently disgusted with the lady, taking Murray by the arm, withdrew with him from the apartment. She approached Wallace. You are come, my deliverer, to speak comfort to the mother of this poor babe. My cruel Lord here and the Earl of Lennox say you mean to abandon us in this castle? It cannot be abandoned, returned the chief, while they are in it. But if so warlike a scene alarms you, would not a religious sanctuary? Not for worlds, cried she, interrupting him. What altar is held sacred by the enemies of our country? Oh, wonder not, then, added she, putting her face to that of her child, that I should wish this innocent babe never to be from under the wing of such a protector. But that is impossible, Joanna, rejoined the Earl. Sir William Wallace has duties to perform superior to that of keeping watch over any private family. His presence is wanted in the field, and we should be traitors to the cause, did we detain him. Unfeeling Maher cried she, bursting into tears, thus to echo the words of the barbarian Kirkpatrick, thus to condemn us to die. You will see another tragedy, your own wife and child seized by the returning Southerns, and laid bleeding at your feet. Wallace walked from her much agitated. Rather inhuman, Joanna, whispered Lord Maher to her in an angry voice, to make such a reference to the presence of our protector. I cannot stay to listen to a pertinacity as insulting to the rest of our brave leaders as it is oppressive to Sir William Wallace. Edwin, you will come for me when your aunt can sense to be guided by right reason. While yet speaking, he entered the passage that led to his own apartment. Lady Maher sat a few minutes silent. She was not to be warned from her determination by the displeasure of a husband whom she now regarded with the impatience of a bondwoman toward her taskmaster. And only solicitous to compass the detention of Sir William Wallace, she resolved, if he would not remain at the castle, to persuade him to conduct her himself to her husband's territories in the Isle of Butte. She could contrive to make the journey occupy more than one day, and for holding him longer she would trust a chance and her own inventions. With these resolutions she looked up. Edwin was speaking to Wallace. What does he tell you, said she, that my Lord has left me in displeasure? Alas! He comprehends not a mother's anxiety for her sole remaining child. One of my sweet twins, my dear daughter, died on my being brought a prisoner to this horrid fortress. And to lose this also would be more than I could bear. Look at this babe, cried she. Bring it up to him. Let it plead to you for its life. Guard it, noble Wallace, whatever may become of me. The appeal of a mother made instant way to Sir William's heart. Even her weaknesses did they point to anxiety respecting her offspring were sacred with him. What would you have me do, madam? If you fear to remain here tell me where you think you would be safer and I will be your conductor. She paused to repress the triumph with which this proposal filled her, and then with downcast eyes replied, In the sea-gird butte stands Rothsay, a rude but strong castle of my lords. It possesses nothing to attract the notice of the enemy, and there I might remain in perfect safety. Lord Maher may keep his station here until a general victory sends you, noble Wallace, to restore my child to its father. Wallace bowed his assent to her proposal, and Edwin, remembering the Earl's injunction, inquired if he might inform him of what was decided. When he left the room Lady Maher rose, and suddenly putting her son into the arms of Wallace, Rose and said, Let his sweet caresses thank you. Wallace trembled as he pressed its little mouth to his, and mistranslating this emotion she dropped her face upon the infants, and in effecting to kiss it rested her head upon the bosom of the chief. There was something in this action more than maternal. It surprised and disconcerted Wallace. Madam said he, drawing back and relinquishing the child, I do not require any thanks for serving the wife and son of Lord Maher. At that moment the Earl entered. Lady Maher flattered herself that the repelling action of Wallace and his cold answer had arisen from the expectation of this entrance. Yet blushing with something like disappointment, she hastily uttered a few agitated words to inform her husband that Butte was to be her future sanctuary. Lord Maher approved it, and declared his determination to accompany her. In my state I can be of little use here, said he. My family will require protection, even in that seclusion. And therefore, leaving Lord Lennick's sole governor of Dumbarton, I shall unquestionably attend them to Rothsay myself. This arrangement would break in upon the lonely conversation she had meditated to have with Wallace, and therefore the count is objected to the proposal. But none of her arguments being admitted by her Lord, and as Wallace did not support them by a word. She was obliged to make a merit of necessity, and consent to her husband being their companion. End of Chapter 25. CHAPTER 26 RENFERSHER And evening the next day, Kerr not only returned with the Earl of Lennick's men, but brought with them Sir Eustace Maxwell of Carl Lavorock. That brave night happened to be in the neighborhood the very same night in which Divalence fled before the arms of Wallace across the Clyde, and he no sooner saw the Scottish colors on the walls of Dumbarton than finding out who was their planter, his soul took fire, and stung with a generous ambition of equaling in glory his equal in years. He determined to assist while he emulated the victor. To this end he traversed the adjoining country, striving to enlighten the understandings of this stupidly satisfied and to excite the discontented to revolt. With most he failed. Some took upon them to lecture him on fishing in troubled waters, and warned him if he would keep his head on his shoulders to wear his yoke in peace. Others thought the project too arduous for men of small means. They wished well to the arms of Sir William Wallace, and should he continue successful, would watch the moment to aid him with all their little power. Those who had much property feared to risk its loss by embracing a doubtful struggle. Some were too great cowards to fight for the rights they would gladly regain by the exertions of others. And others again, who had families, shrunk from taking part in a cause which, should it fail, would put not only their lives in danger, but expose their offspring to the revenge of a resentful enemy. This was the best apology of any that had been offered. Self-affection was the pleader, and though blinded to its true interest, such weakness had an amiable source, and so was pardoned. But the other pleas were so basely selfish, so undeserving of anything but scorn, that Sir Eustace Maxwell could not for bear expressing it. When Sir William Wallace is entering full sale, you will send your hirelings to tow him in, but if a plank could save him now you would not throw it to him. I understand you, sirs, and shall trouble your patriotism no more. In short, none but a hundred poor fellows whom outrages had rendered desperate, and a few brave spirits who would put all to the hazard of for so good a cause, could be prevailed upon to hold themselves in readiness to obey Sir Eustace, when he should see the moment to conduct them to Sir William Wallace. He was trying his eloquence among the clan Atlenex when Kerr arriving, stamped his persuasions with truth, and above five hundred men arranged themselves under their Lord's standard. He gladly explained himself to Wallace's lieutenant, and summoning his little reserve they marched with flying penins through the town of Dunbarton. At sight of so much larger a power than they expected would venture to appear in arms, and sanctioned by the example of the Earl of Lenox, whose name held a great influence in those parts, several who before had held back from doubting their own judgment now came forward, and nearly eight hundred well-appointed men marched into the fortress. So larger reinforcement was gratefully received by Wallace, and he welcomed Maxwell with a cordiality which inspired that young knight with an affection equal to his zeal. A council being held respecting the disposal of the new troops, it was decided that the Lenox men must remain with their Earl and garrison, while those brought by Maxwell, and under his command, should follow Wallace in the prosecution of his conquests, along with his own special people. These preliminaries being arranged, the remainder of the day was dedicated to more matured deliberations, to the unfolding of the plan of warfare which Wallace had conceived. As he first sketched the general outline of his design, and then proceeded the particulars of each military movement, he displayed such comprehensiveness of mind, such depths of penetration, clearness of apprehension, facility and expedience, promptitude and perceiving, and fixing on the most favorable points of attack, explaining their bearings upon the power of the enemy, and where the possession of such a castle would compel the neighbouring ones to surrender, and where occupying the hills with bands of resolute scots would be a more efficient bulwark than a thousand towers, that Maxwell gazed on him with admiration, and Lenox with wonder. Maher had seen the power of his arms. Murray had already drunk the experience of a veteran from his genius. Hence they were not surprised on hearing that which filled strangers with amazement. Lenox gazed on his leader's youthful countenance, doubting whether he were really listening to military plans, great as general ever formed, or were visited by some heroic shade who offered to his sleeping fancy designs far vaster than his waking faculties could have conceived. He had thought that the young Wallace might have one dumb Barton by a bold stroke, and that when his invincible courage should be steered by stroke, and that when his invincible courage should be steered by graver heads, every success might be expected from his arms, and saw that when it turned to any cause of policy, the Gordian knot of it he did unloose, familiar as his garter. He marveled and said within himself, Surely this man is born to be a sovereign. Maxwell, though equally astonished, was not so rapt. You have made arms the study of your life, inquired he. It was the study of my earliest days, returned Wallace. But when Scotland lost her freedom, as the sword was not drawn in her defense, I looked not where it lay. I then studied the arts of peace. That is over, and now the passion of my soul revives. When the mind is bent on one object only, all becomes clear that leads to it. Zeal, in such cases, is almost genius. Soon after these observations, it was admitted that Wallace might attend Lord Marr and his family on the Marrow to the Isle of Butte. When the dawn broke, he arose from his heather bed in the Great Tower, and having called forth twenty of the Bothwell men to escort their lord, he told Ireland he should expect to have a cheering account of the wounded on his return. But to assure the poor fellows rejoin the honest soldier that something of yourself still keeps watch over them. I pray you leave me the sturdy sword with which you won Dunbarton. It shall be hung up in their sight, and a good soldier's wound will heal by looking on it. This tower within the fortress of Dunbarton is still called Wallace's tower, and a sword is shown there as the one that belonged to Wallace. Wallace smiled, we're at our holy King David's. We might expect such a miracle, but you are welcome to it, and here let it remain till I take it hence. Meanwhile lend me yours, Stephen, for a truer never fought for Scotland. A glow of conscious valor flushed the cheek of the veteran. There, my dear lord, said he presenting it, it will not dishonor your hand, for it cut down many a proud Norwegian on the field of larks. Wallace took the sword and turned to meet Murray with Edwin in the portal. When they reached the citadel, Lennox and all the officers in the garrison were assembled to bid their chief a short adieu. Wallace spoke to each separately, and then, approaching the countess, led her down the rock to the horses which were to convey them to the frith of Clyde. Lord Maher between Murray and Edwin followed, and the servants and guard completed the suit. Being well-mounted, they pleasantly pursued their way, avoiding all inhabited places and resting in the deepest recesses of the hills. Lord Maher proposed traveling all night, but at the close of the evening his countess complained of fatigue, declaring she could not advance further than the eastern bank of the River Cart. No shelter appeared in sight, except a thick and extensive wood of hazels. But the air being mild, and the lady declaring her inability of moving on, Lord Maher at last became reconciled to his wife and son passing the night with no other canopy than the trees. Wallace ordered cloaks to be spread on the ground for the countess and her women, and seeing them laid to rest, planted his men to keep guard round the circle. The moon had sunk in the west before the whole of his little camp or asleep, but when all seemed composed, he wandered forth by the dim light of the stars to view the surrounding country, a country he had so often traversed in his boyish days. A little onward, in green renfresher, lay the lands of his father, but that illerslay of his ancestors, like his own illerslay of Clydesdale, his country's enemies had leveled with the ground. He turned in anguish of heart toward the south, for their less racking remembrances hovered over the distant hills. Leaning on the shattered stump of an old tree, he fixed his eyes on the far-stretching plain, which alone seemed to divide him from the venerable Sir Ronald Crawford and his youthful haunts at air. Full of thoughts of her who used to share those happy scenes, he heard a sigh behind him. He turned round, and beheld a female figure disappear among the trees. He stood motionless, again it met his view, it seemed to approach. A strange emotion stirred within him. When he last passed these borders, he was bringing his bride from air. What then was this ethereal visitant? The silver light of the stars was not brighter than its airy robes which floated in the wind. His heart paused, it beat violently, still the figure advanced. Just in the wilderness of his imagination he exclaimed, Marion, and darted forward as if to rush into her embrace. But it fled, and again vanished. He dropped upon the ground, in speechless disappointment. "'Tis false,' cried he, recovering from his first expectation, "'tis a phantom of my own creating. The pure spirit of Marion would never fly from me. I loved her too well. She would not thus redouble my grief. But I shall go to the wife of my soul,' cried he, and that is comfort. Balm indeed is the Christian's hope. Such were his words, such were his thoughts. Till the coldness of the hour and the exhaustion of nature putting a friendly seal upon his senses, he sunk upon the bank and fell into a profound sleep. When he awoke, the lark was caroling above his head, and to his surprise he found a plaid was laid over him. He threw it off, and beheld Edwin seated at his feet. "'This has been your doing, my kind brother,' said he, "'but how came you to discover me?' "'I missed you when the dawn broke, and at last found you here, sleeping under the dew.' And has none else been a stir?' inquired Wallace, thinking of the figure he had seen? None that I know of all were fast asleep when I left the party. Wallace began to fancy that he had been laboring under the impressions of some powerful dream, and saying no more he returned to the wood. Finding everybody ready, he took his station, and setting forth all proceeded cheerfully, though slowly, through the delightful valleys of Barrahan. By sunset they arrived at the point of embarkation. The journey ought to have been performed in half the time, but the countess petitioned for long rests, a compliance with which the younger part of the cavalcade conceded, with reluctance. CHAPTER XXVII. At Guroc Murray engaged two small vessels, one for the Earl and Countess, with Wallace as their escort. The other for himself and Edwin to follow with a few of the men. It was a fine evening, and they embarked with everything in their favour. The boatmen calculated on reaching Butte in a few hours, but ere they had been half an hour at sea, the wind, bearing about, obliged them to woo its breezes by a traversing motion, which though it lengthened their voyage, increased its pleasantness by carrying them often within near views of the ever-varying shores. Sailing under a sidewind, they beheld the huge, irregular rocks of Danoone, overhanging the ocean, while from their projecting brows hung every shrub which can live in that saline atmosphere. There, whispered Lady Mar, gently inclining toward Wallace, might the beautiful mermaid of Corrie Verrucan keep her court, observe how magnificently those arching cliffs overhang the hollows, and how richly they are studded with shells and sea-flowers. No flower of the field or of the ocean that came within the ken of Wallace wasted its sweetness unadmired. He assented to the remarks of Lady Mar, who continued to expatiate on the beauties of the shores which they passed, and thus the hours flew pleasantly away, till turning the southern point of the Cowell Mountains, the scene suddenly changed. The wind, which had gradually been rising, blew a violent gale from that part of the coast, and the sea, being pimped between the rocks which skirt the continent and the northern side of Butte, came so boisterous that the boatmen began to think they should be driven upon the rocks of the island instead of reaching its bay. Wallace tore down the sails and, laying his nervous arms to the oar, assisted to keep the vessel off the breakers, against which the waves were driving her. The sky collected into a gloom, and while the teeming clouds seemed ascending even to rest upon the cracking masts, the swelling of the ocean threatened to heave her up into their very bosoms. Timar looked with a fright at the gathering tempest, and with difficulty was persuaded to retire under the shelter of a little awning. The earl forgot his debility in the general terror, and tried to reassure the boatmen. But a tremendous sweep of the gale, driving the vessel far across the head of Butte, shot her past the mouth of Luck Fine, toward the perilous rocks of Arran. Here our destruction is certain, cried the master of the bark, at the same time confessing his ignorance of the navigation on this side of the island. Timar seizing the helm from the stupefied master called to Wallace, while you keep the men to their duty, cried he, I will steer. The earl being perfectly acquainted with the coast, Wallace gladly saw the helm in his hand. But he had scarcely stepped forward himself to give some necessary directions, when a heavy sea, breaking over the deck, carried two of the poor mariners overboard. Wallace instantly threw out a couple of ropes. Then amidst his spray so blinding that the vessel appeared in a cloud, and while buffeted on each side by the raging of waves, which seemed contending to tear her to pieces, she lay to for a few minutes to rescue the men from the yawning gulf. One caught a rope and was saved, but the other was seen no more. Again the bark was set loose to the current. Wallace, now with two rowers only, applied his whole strength to their aid. The master and the third man were employed in the unceasing toil of laying out the accumulating water. While the anxious chief tugged at the oar, and watched the thousand embattled cliffs which threatened destruction, his eye looked for the vessel that contained his friends. But the liquid mountains which rolled around him prevented all view, and with hardly a hope of seeing them again, he pursued his attempt to preserve the lives of those committed to his care. All this while Lady Marley in a state of stupefaction, having fainted at the first alarm of danger, she had fallen from swoon to swoon, and now remained almost insensible upon the bosom of her maids. In a moment the vessel struck with a great shock, and the next instant it seemed to move with a velocity incredible. The whirlpool, the whirlpool, resounded from every lip. But again the rapid motion was suddenly checked, and the women, fancying they had struck on the brick and rock, shrieked aloud. The cry and the terrified words which accompanied it aroused Lady Marley. She started from her trance, and while the confusion redoubled, rushed toward the dreffel scene. The mountainous waves and lowering clouds, borne forward by the blast, anticipated the dreariness of night. The last rays of the setting sun had long passed away, and the deep shadows of the driving heavens cast the whole into a gloom, even more terrific than absolute darkness. While the high and beatling rocks, towering aloft in precipitous walls, mocked the hopes of the sea-beaten mariner, should he even buffet the waters to reach their base, and the jagged shingles, deeply shelving beneath the waves, or projecting their pointed summits upward, showed the crew where the rugged death would meet them. A little onward, a thousand massy fragments, rent by former tempest from their parent cliffs, lay at the foundations of the immense occluities, which faced the cause of their present alarm, a whirlpool almost as terrific as that of Scarba. The moment the powerful blast drove the vessel within the influence of the outward edge of the first circle of the vortex. The vessel leaped from the deck on the rocks, and, with the same rope in his hand with which he had saved the life of the sea-men, he called the two men to follow him, who yet held similar ropes, fastened like his own to the prow of the vessel, and being obeyed, they strove by towing it along to stem the suction of the current. It was at this instant that Lady Marr rushed forward upon deck. "'In for your life, Joanna,' exclaimed the Earl. She answered him not, but looked wildly around her. Nowhere could she see Wallace. If I drowned him, cried she, in a voice of frenzy, and striking the women from her who would have held her back. Let me clasp him, even in the deep waters.' Happily, the Earl lost the last sentence in the roaring of the storm. Wallace, Wallace, cried she, wringing her hands, and still struggling with her women. At that moment a huge wave, sinking before her, discovered the object of her fears, straining along the surface of a rock, and followed by the men in the same laborious task, tugging forward the ropes to which the bark was attached. She gazed at them with wonder and a fright, for not withstanding the beating of the elements, which seeming to find their breasts of iron and their feet armed with some preternatural adhesion to the cliff, they continued to bear resolutely onward. Fortunately, they did not now labor against the wind. Sometimes they pressed forward on the level edge of the rock, then a yawning chasm forced them to leap from cliff to cliff, or to spring on some more elevated projection. Thus, contending with the vortex on the storm, they at last arrived at the doubling of Cuthron Rock, the point that was clear to them of this minor quarry bricken. But at that crisis the rope which Wallace held broke, and with the shock he fell backward into the sea. The foremost man uttered a dreadful cry, but Eric could be echoed by his fellows, Wallace had risen above the waves, and beating their whelming waters with his invincible arm, soon gained the vessel and jumped upon the deck. The point was doubled, but the next moment the vessel struck, and in a manner that left no hope of getting her off. All must take to the water or perish, for the second shock would scatter her piece-mail. Again Lady Mar appeared. At sight of Wallace she forgot everything but him, and perhaps would have thrown herself into his arms had not the anxious earl caught her in his own. Are we to die? cried she to Wallace in a voice of horror. I trust that God has decreed otherwise, was his reply. Compose yourself. All may yet be well. Lord Mar from his yet unhealed wounds could not swim. Wallace therefore tore up the benches of the rowers, and binding them into the form of a small raft, made it the vehicle for the earl and countess, with her two maids and the child. While the men were towing it, and buffeting it through the breakers, he too threw himself into the sea to swim by its side, and be in readiness in case of accident. Having gained the shore, or rather the broken rocks, that lie at the foot of the stupendous crags which surround the isle of Arryn, Wallace and his sturdy assistants conveyed the countess and her terrified women up their aclivities. Fortunately for the shipwrecked voyagers, though the wind raged, its violence was of some advantage, for it nearly cleared the heaven of clouds, and allowed the moon to send forth her guiding light. By her lamp one of the men discovered the mouth of a cavern, where Wallace gladly sheltered his stripping charges. The child, whom he had guarded in his own arms during the difficult ascent, he now laid on the bosom of its mother. Lady Marr kissed the hand that relinquished it, and gave way to a flood of grateful tears. The earl, as he sunk almost powerless against the side of the cave, yet had strength enough to press Wallace to his heart. "'Ever preserver of me in mind,' cried he, "'how must I bless thee? My wife, my child, have been saved to you, my friend,' interrupted Wallace, by the presiding care of him who walked the waves. Without his especial arm we must all have perished in this awful night. Therefore let our thanksgiving be directed to him alone. So be it,' returned the earl, and dropping on his knees he breathed forth so pathetic and sublime a prayer of thanks, that the Countess trembled and bent her head upon the bosom of her child. She could not utter the solemn, amen, that was repeated by every voice in the cave. Her unhappy infatuation saw no higher power in this great preservation than the hand of the man she adored. She felt that guilt was cherished in her heart, and she could not lift her eyes to join with those who, with the boldness of innocence, called on heaven to attest the sanctity of their vows. Sleep soon sealed every weary eye, accepting those of Wallace. A wracking anxiety respecting the fate of the other vessel, in which were the brave men of Bothwell and his two dear friends, filled his mind with dreadful forebodings that they had not outlived the storm. Sometimes when wearied nature, for a few minutes, sunk into slumber, he would start grief-struck from the body of Edwin floating on the briny flood, and as he awoke, a cold despondence would tell him that his dream was, perhaps, too true. Oh, I love the Edwin, exclaimed he to himself, and if my devoted heart was to be separated from all but a patriot's love, why did I think of loving thee? Must thou to die that Scotland may have no rival, that Wallace may feel himself quite alone? Thus he sat musing, and listening with many a sigh to the yelling gusts of wind, and louder roaring of the water. At last the former gradually subsided, and the latter obeying the retreating ride, rolled away in hoarse murmurs. Morning began to dawn, and spreading upon the mountains of the opposite shore, shed a soft light over their misty sides. All was tranquil and full of beauty. That element, which so lately in its rage had threatened to engulf them all, now flowed by the rocks at the foot of the cave in gentle undulations. And where the spiral cliffs gave a little resistance, the rays of the rising sun, striking on the bursting waves, turned their vapory showers into dropping gems. While his companions were still wrapped in sleep, Wallace stole away to seek some knowledge respecting the part of the Isle of Arryn on which they were cast. Close by the mouth of the cave he discovered a cleft in the rock, into which he turned, and finding the upward footing sufficiently secure, clamored to the summit. Looking around he found himself with the skirt of a chain of high hills, which seemed to stretch from side to side over the island, while their tops, in alpine succession, rose in a thousand grotesque and pinnacled forms. The tarmigan and caperkelsy were screaming from those upper regions, and the nimble rose with their fawns bounding through the green defiles below. No trace of human habitation appeared, but from the size and known population of the island he knew he could not be far from inhabitants, and thinking at best to send the boatmen in search of them he retraced his steps. The morning vapors were fast rolling their snowy reeds down the opposite mountains, whose heads, shining in resplendent purple, seemed to view themselves in the bright reflections of the now smooth sea. Nature, like a proud conqueror, appeared to have put on a triumphal garb, in exultation of the devastation she had committed the night before. The tide was shuttered as the parallel occurred to his mind and turned from the scene. On re-entering the cave he dispatched the seamen, and disposed himself to watch by the sides of his still sleeping friends. An hour hardly had elapsed before his men returned, bringing with them a large boat and its proprietor. But alas no tidings of Murray and Edwin, whom he had hoped might have been driven somewhere on the island. In bringing the boat round to the creek under the rock, the men discovered that the sea had driven their wreck between two projecting rocks, where it now lay wedged, though ruined as a vessel sufficient held together to warrant their exertions to save the property. Accordingly they entered it, and then strew most of the valuables which belonged to Lord Marr. While this was doing, Wallace re-ascended to the cave, and finding the Earl awake, told him that a boat was ready for their re-embarkation. But where, my friend, are my nephews, inquired he. Alas, has this fatal expedition robbed me of them? Wallace tried to inspire him with the hope he scarcely dare credit himself, that they had been saved on some more distant shore. The voices of the chiefs awakened the women, but the countess still slept. Aware that she would resist trusting herself to the waves again, Lord Marr desired that she might be moved on board without disturbing her. This was readily done, the men having only to take up the extremities of the plaid onto the boat. The Earl received her head on his bosom. All were then on board, the rowers struck their oars, and once more the little party found themselves launched upon the sea. While they were yet midway between the aisles, with a bright sun playing its sparkling beams upon the gently ripping waves, the countess, heaving a deep sigh, slowly opened her eyes. All around, glared with the light of day. She felt the motion of the boat, and raising her head saw that she was again embarked on the treacherous element on which she had lately experienced so many terrors. She grew deadly pale, and grasped her husband's hand. "'My dear Joanna,' cried he, "'be not alarmed. We are all safe.' "'And Sir William Wallace has left us?' demanded she. "'No, madam,' answered a voice from the steerage, "'not till this party is safe at Butte do I quit it.' She looked round with a grateful smile. Ever-generous! How could I for a moment doubt our preserver?' Wallace bowed but remained silent, and they passed calmly along till the vessel came inside of a burling, which bounding over the waves, was presently so near the earls that the figures in each could be distinctly seen. In it the chiefs, to their rapturous surprise, beheld Murray and Edwin. The latter, with a cry of joy, left into the sea. The next instant he was over the boat's side, and clasped in the arms of Wallace. Real transport, true happiness, now dilated the heart of the before-desponding chief. He pressed the dear boy again and again to his bosom, and kissed his white forehead with all the rapture of the fondest brother. "'Thank God! Thank God!' was all that Edwin could say. While at every effort to tear himself from Wallace, to congratulate his uncle on his safety, his heart overflowing toward his friend, opened afresh, and he clung the closer to his breast. Till at last, exhausted with happiness, the little hero of Dumbarton gave way to the sensibility of his tender age. And the chief felt his bosom wet with the joy-drawn tears of his youthful bannerette. While this was passing, the burling had drawn close to the boat, and Murray, shaking hands with his uncle and aunt, exclaimed to Wallace, "'That urchin is such a monopolizer. I see you have not a greeting for anyone else.' On this Edwin raised his face and turned to the affectionate welcomes of Lord Marr. Wallace stretched out his hand to the ever-gay Lord Andrew, and inviting him into the boat, soon learned that on the portenge's beginning of the storm Murray's company made directly to the nearest creek in Butte. Being better seamen than Wallace's helmsman, who until danger stopped him, had foolishly continued to aim for Rothsy. By this prudence, without having been in much peril or sustained any fatigue, Murray's party had landed safely. The night came on dark and treacherous, but not doubting that the Earl's rowers had carried him into a similar haven, the young chief and his companion kept themselves very easy in a fisher's hut till morning. At an early hour they then put themselves at the head of the Bothwell men, and expecting they should come up with Wallace and his party at Rothsy, walked over to the castle. Their consternation was unutterable when they found that Lord Marr was not there, threw themselves into a burling, to seek their friends upon the seas, and when they did espy them the joy of Edwin was so great that not even the unfathomable gulf could stop him from flying to the embrace of his friend. While mutual felicitations passed, the boats, now nearly side by side, reached the shore, and the seamen, jumping on the rocks, moored their vessels under the projecting towers of Rothsy. The old steward hastened to receive a master who had not blessed his aged eyes for many a year, a master who had the infant in his arms that was to be the future representative of the House of Marr. He wept aloud. The Earl spoke to him affectionately, and then walked on with Edwin, whom he called to support him of the bank. Murray led the Countess out of the boat, while the Bothwell men so thronged about Wallace, congratulating themselves on his safety, that she saw there was no hope of his arm being then offered to her. Having entered the castle, the steward led them into a room in which he had spread a plentiful repast. Here Murray, having recounted the adventures of his voyage, called for a history of what had befallen his friends. The Earl gladly took up the tale, and with many a glance of gratitude to Wallace, narrated the perilous events of their shipwreck, and providential preservation on the Isle of Arryn. Happiness now seemed to have shed her heavenly influence over every bosom. All hearts owned the grateful effects of the late rescue. The rapturous joy of Edwin burst into a thousand sallies of ardent and luxurious imagination. The high spirits of Murray turned every transient subject into a mirth-moving jest. The veteran Earl seemed restored to health and to youth, and Wallace felt the son of consolation expanding in his bosom. He had met a heart, though a young one, on which his soul might repose. That dear selected brother of his affection was saved from the whelming waves, and all his superstitious dreams of a mysterious doom banished before this manifestation of heavenly goodness. His friend, too, the gallant Murray, was spared. How many subjects had he for unmermering gratitude? And with an unclouded brow and a happy spirit he yielded to the impulse of the scene. He smiled, and with an endearing graciousness listened to every fond speaker, while his own ingenuous replies bespoke the treasure of love which sorrow in her cruellest aspect had locked within his heart. The complacency with which he regarded every one, the pouring out of his beneficent spirit, which seemed to embrace all, like his dearest kindred, turned every eye and heart toward him, as to the source of every bliss, as to a being who seemed made to love and to be loved by every one. Lady Mar looked at him, listened to him, with her wrapped soul seated in her eyes. In his presence all was transport. But when he withdrew for the night, what was then the state of her feelings? The overflowing of heart he felt for all, she appropriated solely for herself. The sweetness of his voice, the unutterable expression of his countenance, while as he spoke he veiled his eyes under their long brown lashes, had raised such vague hopes in her bosom, that he, being gone, she hastened her adduce to the rest, eager to retire to bed, and there uninterruptedly muse on the happiness of having at last touched the heart of a man for whom she would resign the world. CHAPTER XXVIII. The morning would have brought annihilation to the Countess's new-fledged hopes, had not Murray been the first to meet her as she came from her home. While walking on the cliffs at some distance from the castle to observe the weather, he met Wallace and Edwin. They had already been across the valley to the Haven, and ordered a boat round to convey them back to Gourac. Postpone your flight for pity's sake, cried Murray, if you would not, by discurtecy destroy what your gallantry has preserved. He then told them that Lady Mar was preparing a feast in the glen behind the castle. And if you do not stay to partake it, added he, we may expect all the witches in the isle will be bribed to sink us before we reach the shore. After this the general meeting of the morning was not less cordial than the separation of the night before, and when Lady Mar withdrew to give orders for her rural banquet, the time was seized by the Earl for the arrangement of matters of more consequence. In a private conversation with Murray the preceding evening, he had learned that, just before the party left unbarten, a letter had been sent to Helen at St. Philan's, informing her of the taking of the castle and of the safety of her friends. This having satisfied the Earl he did not advert to her at all in his present discourse with Wallace, but rather avoided encumbering his occupied mind with anything but the one great theme. While the Earl and his friends were marshalling armies, taking towns and storming castles, the countess, intent on other conquests, was meaning to beguile and destroy that manly spirit by soft delights, which a continuance in war's rugged scenes, she thought, was too likely to render invulnerable. When her Lord and his guests were summoned to the feast, she met them at the mouth of the Glen. Having tried the effect of splendor, she now left all to the power of her natural charms, and appeared simply clad in her favourite green. Morag, the pretty grandchild of the steward, walked beside her, like the fairy queen of the scene, so gaily was she decorated in all the flowers of spring. Here is the Lady of My Elfin Rebels, holding her little king in her arms. As the countess spoke, Morag held up the infant to Lady Mar, dressed like herself, in a tissue gathered from the field. The sweet babe laughed and crowed, and made a spring to leap into Wallace's arms. The chief took him, and with an affectionate smile pressed his little cheek to his. Though he had felt the repugnance of a delicate mind, and the shuddering of a man who held his person consecrated to the memory of the only woman he had ever loved, though he had felt these sentiments mingle into an abhorrence of the countess, when she allowed her head to drop on his breast in the citadel, charging her to himself with anything designedly immodest, he had certainly avoided her. Yet since the wreck, the danger she had escaped, the general joy of all meeting again, had wiped away even the remembrance of his former cause of dislike. And he now sat by her as by a sister, fondling her child, although at every sweet caress it reminded him of what might have been his, of hopes lost to him forever. The repast over, the piper of the adjacent cottages appeared, and placing himself on a projecting rock, at the carol of his merry instrument, the young peasants of both sexes jucklingly came forward and began to dance. At this site Edwin seized the little hand of Morag, while Lord Andrew called a pretty lass from amongst the rustics, and joined the group. The happy earl, with many a hearty laugh, enjoyed the jollity of his people, and while the steward stood at his lord's back, describing whose sons and daughters passed before him in the reel, Mar remembered their parents, their fathers, once his companions in the chase are on the wave, and their mothers, the pretty maidens he had used to pursue over the hills in the merry time of shealing. Neymar watched the countenance of Wallace as he looked upon the joyous group. It was placid, and a soft complacency illuminated his eye. How different was the expression in hers had he marked it. All within her was in tumult, and the characters were but too legibly imprinted on her face. But he did not look on her, for the child, whom the perfume of the flowers overpowered began to cry. He rose, and having resigned it to the nurse, turned into a narrow vista of trees, where he walked slowly on, unconscious wither he went. Lady Mar, with an eager, though almost aimless haste, followed him with a light step till she saw him turn out of the vista, and then she lost sight of him. To walk with him, undisturbed in so deep a seclusion, to improve the impression which she was sure she had made upon his heart, to teach him to forget his Marian in the hope of one day possessing her, all these thoughts ran in this vain woman's head, and inwardly rejoicing that the shattered health of her husband promised her a ready freedom to become the wife of the man to whom she would gladly belong, in honor or in dishonor, she hastened forward as if the accomplishment of her wishes depended on this meeting. Peeping through the trees, she saw him standing with folded arms, looking intently into the bosom of a large lake, but the place was so thickly surrounded with willows she could only perceive him at intervals, when the wind tossed aside the branches. Having stood for some time he walked on. For some time she assayed to emerge and join him, but a sudden awe of him, a conviction of that saintly purity which would shrink from the guilty vows she was meditating to pour into his ear, a recollection of the ejaculation with which he had accosted her before hovering figure when she haunted his footsteps on the banks of the cart, these thoughts made her pause. He might again mistake her for the same dear object. This image it was not her interest to recall, and to approach near him, to unveil her heart to him, and to be repulsed, there was madness in the idea and she retreated. She had no sooner returned to the scene of festivity than she repented of having allowed what she deemed an idle alarm of overstrained delicacy to drive her from the lake. She would have hastened back, had not two or three aged female peasants almost instantly engaged her, in spite of her struggles for extrication, to listen to long stories respecting her Lord's youth. She remained thus an unwilling auditor, and by the side of the dancers for nearly an hour before Wallace reappeared. But then she sprung toward him as if his spell were broken. Where, truant, have you been? In a beautiful solitude, returned he, amongst the luxuriant grove of willows. Ah! cries she. It is called Glen Sheila, and a sad scene was acted there. About ten years ago a lady of this island drowned herself in the lake they hang over because the man she loved despised her. Maybe a woman, observed Wallace. Then you would have pitied her, rejoined Lady Marr. He cannot be a man that would not pity a woman under such circumstances. Then you would not have consigned her to such a fate? Wallace was startled by the peculiar tone in which this simple question was asked. It recalled the action in the citadel, and unconsciously turning a penetrating look on her his eyes met hers. He need not have heard further to have learned more. She hastily looked down and colored, and he, wishing to misunderstand a language so disgraceful to herself, so dishonoring to her husband, gave some trifling answer. Then making a slight observation about the earl he advanced to him. Lord Marr was become tired with so gala a scene, and taking the arm of Wallace they returned together into the house. Edwin soon followed with Murray, gladly arriving in time to see their little pinnacle drawn up under the castle and throw out her moorings. The Countess, too, described its streamers, and hastening to the room where she knew the chiefs were yet assembled, though the wearied earl had retired to repose, inquired the reason of that boat having drawn so near the castle. That it may take us from it, Fair Aunt, replied Murray. The Countess fixed her eyes with an unequivocal expression upon Wallace. My gratitude is ever due your kindness, noble lady, said he, wishing to be blind to what he could not perceive. And that we may ever deserve it we must keep the enemy from your doors. Yes, added Murray, and to keep a moor in the city as foe from our own. Edwin and I feel it rather dangerous to bask too long in these sunny bowers. But surely your chief is not afraid, said she, casting a soft glance at Wallace. Yet, nevertheless, I must fly, returned he, bowing to her. That you positively shall not, added she, with a fluttering joy at her heart, thinking she was about to succeed. You stir not this night, else on shall brand you all as a band of cowards. Wallace by every name in the Pultron's calendar, cried Murray, seeing by the countenance of Wallace that his resolution was not to be moved. Yet I must gallop off from your black-eyed Judith, as if chased by the ghost of whole Furnace himself. So, dear Aunt, rejoined Edwin, smiling, if you do not mean to play Cersei to our Ulysses, give us leave to go. Lady Marr startled, confused she knew not how, as he innocently uttered these words. The animated boy snatched a kiss from her hand, when he ceased speaking, and darted after Murray, who had disappeared, to give some speeding directions respecting the boat. Left thus alone with the object of her every wish, in the moment when she thought she was going to lose him, perhaps forever, she forgot all prudence, all reserve, and laying her hand on his arm, as with a respectful bow he was also moving away, she arrested his steps. She held him fast, but her agitation prevented her speaking. She trembled violently, and weeping dropped her head upon his shoulder. He was motionless. Her tears were doubled. He felt the embarrassment of his situation, and at last extricating his tongue, which surprise and shame for her had chained, in a gentle voice he inquired the cause of her uneasiness. If for the safety of your nephews— No, no! cried she, interrupting him. Read my fate in that of the Lady of Glenshala. Again he was silent, astonished, fearful of two promptly understanding so disgraceful a truth. He found no words in which to answer her, and her emotions became so uncontrolled that he expected she would swoon in his arms. Cruel, cruel Wallace! at last cried she, clinging to him, for he had once or twice attempted to disengage himself, and recede her on the bench. Your heart is steeled, or it would understand mine. It would at least pity the wretchedness it has created. But I am despised, and I can yet find the watery grave from which you rescued me. To dissemble longer would have been folly. Wallace, now resolutely ceding her, though with gentleness addressed her. Your husband, Lady Marr, is my friend. Had I even a heart to give a woman, not one sigh should arise in it to his dishonour. But I am lost to all warmer affections than that of friendship. I may regard man as my brother, woman as my sister, but never more can I look on female form with love. Lady Marr's tears now flowed in a more tempered current. But were it otherwise, cried she, only tell me, that had I not been bound with chains, which my kinsmen forced upon me, had I not been made the property of a man who, however estimable, was of two paternal years for me to love, ah, tell me, if these tears should now flow in vain? Wallace seemed to hesitate what to answer. Wrought up to agony she threw herself on his breast, saying, answer, but drive me not to despair. I never loved man before, and now to be scorned. Oh, kill me, too, dear Wallace, but tell me not that you could never have loved me. Wallace was alarmed at her vehemence. Lady Marr, returned he, I am incapable of saying anything to you that is inimicable to your duty to the best of men. I will even forget this distressing conversation, and continue through life to revere, equal with himself, the wife of my friend. And I am to be stabbed with this, she replied, in a voice of indignant anguish. You are to be healed with it, Lady Marr, returned he, for it is not a man like the rest of his sex that now addresses you, but a being whose heart is petrified to marble. I could feel no throb of yours, I should be insensible to all your charms, where I even vile enough to see no evil in trampling upon your husband's rights. Yes, were virtue lost to me, still memory would speak. Still would she urge, that the chaste and last kiss, imprinted by my wife on these lips, should live there in unblemished sanctity, till I again meet her angel embraces in the world to come. The Countess, awed by his solemnity, but not put from her suit, exclaimed, What she was, I would be to thee, thy consolar, thine adorer, time may set me free, oh, till then, only give me leave to love thee, and I shall be happy. You dishonor yourself, lady, returned he, by these petitions. And for what? You plunge your soul in guilty wishes, you sacrifice your peace and your self-esteem to a phantom, for I repeat, I am dead to woman, and the voice of love sounds like the funeral knell of her who will never breathe it to me again. He arose as he spoke, and the Countess, pierced to the heart and almost despairing of now retaining any part in its esteem, was devising what next to say when Murray came into the room. Wallace instantly observed that his countenance was troubled. What has happened, inquired he. A messenger from the mainland, with bad news from air. Of private or public import, asked Wallace. Of both. There's been a horrible massacre in which the heads of many noble families have fallen. As he spoke, the paleness of his countenance revealed to his friend that part of the information he had found himself unable to communicate. I comprehend my loss, cried Wallace. Sir Ronald Crawford is sacrificed. Bring the messenger in. Murray withdrew, and Wallace, seating himself, remained with a fixed and stern countenance, gazing on the ground. Lady Marr durced not breathe for fear of disturbing the horrid stillness which seemed to lock up his grief and indignation. Lord Andrew re-entered with a stranger. Wallace rose to meet him, and seeing Lady Marr, Countess said he, these bloody recitals are not for your ears, and waving her to withdraw she left the room. This gallant stranger, said Murray, is Sir John Graham. He has just left that new theatre of southern profidity. I have hastened hither, cried the night, to call your victorious arm to take a signal vengeance on the murderers of your grandfather. He and eighteen other Scottish chiefs have been treacherously put to death in the barns of air. Graham then gave a brief narration of the direful circumstance. He and his father, Lord Dundalf, having crossed the south coast of Scotland on their way homeward, stopped to rest at air. They arrived there the very day that Lord Amor de Valence had entered it, a fugitive from Dunbarton Castle. Much as that Earl wished to keep the success of Wallet a secret from the inhabitants of air, he found it impossible. Two or three fugitive soldiers whispered the hard fighting they had endured, and in half an hour after the arrival of the English Earl, everyone knew that the recovery of Scotland was begun. Elated with his intelligence, the Scots went, under night, from house to house, congratulating each other on so miraculous an interference in their favour, and many stole to Sir Ronald Crawford, to felicitate the venerable night on his glorious grandson. The good old man listened with meek joy to their animated eulogisms on Wallis, and when Lord Dundalf, in offering his congratulations with the rest, said, But while all Scotland lay in vassalage, where did he imbibe this spirit to tread down tyrants? The venerable patriarch replied, He was always a noble boy. In infancy he became the defender of every child he saw oppressed by boys of greater power. He was even the champion of the brute creation, and no poor animal was ever attempted to be tortured near him. The old looked on him for comfort, the young for protection. From infancy to manhood he has been a benefactor, and though the cruelty of our enemies have widowed his youthful years, though he should go childless to the grave, the brightness of his virtues will now spread more glories around the name of Wallis than a thousand posterities. Other ears than those of Dundalf heard this honest exultation. The next morning this venerable old man and other chiefs of similar consequence were summoned by Sir Richard Arnolf, the Governor, to his palace, there to deliver in a schedule of their estates, that quiet possession, the Governor said, might be granted to them under the great seal of Lord Amor de Valence, the deputy warden of Scotland. The gray-headed knight, not being so active as his compeers of more juvenile years, had happened to be the last who went to this Tiger's den. Wrapped in his plaid, his silver hair covered with a blue bonnet, and leaning on his staff, he was walking along attended by two domestics, when Sir John Graham met him at the gate of the palace. He smiled on him as he passed and whispered, It will not be long before my Wallis makes even the forms of vassalage unnecessary, and then these failing limbs may sit undisturbed at home under the fig-tree and the vine of his planting. God granted, returned Graham, and he saw Sir Ronald admitted within the interior gate. The servants were ordered to remain without. Sir John walked there some time, expecting the reappearance of the night, whom he intended to assist in leading home. But after an hour, finding no signs of egress from the palace, and thinking his father might be wondering at his delay, he turned his steps toward his own lodgings. While passing along he met several southern detachments hurrying across the streets. In the midst of some of these companies he saw one or two Scottish men of rank, strangers to him, but who, by certain indications, seemed to be prisoners. He did not go far before he met a chieftain in these painful circumstances whom he knew. But as he was hastening toward him the noble scot raised his manacled hand and turned away his head. This was a warning to the young knight, who darted into an obscure alley which led to the gardens of his father's lodgings, and was hurrying forward when he met one of his own servants running in quest of him. Panting with haste he informed his master that a party of armed men had come, under devalances warrant, to seize Lord Dundoff and bear him to prison, to lie there with others who were charged with having taken part in a conspiracy with the grandfather of the insurgent Wallace. The officer of the band who took Lord Dundoff told him, in the most insulting language, that Sir Ronald, his ring-leader with eighteen nobles his accomplices, had already suffered the punishment of their crime, and were lying headless trunks in the judgment-hall. Haste, therefore, replied the man, my Lord's bid you haste to Sir William Wallace and require his hand to avenge his kinsman's blood and to free his countrymen from prison. These are your father's commands, he directed me to seek you and give them to you. Alarmed for the life of his father, Graham hesitated how to act on the moment. To leave him seemed to abandon him to the death the others had received, and yet only by obeying him could he have any hopes of averting his threatened fate. Once seeing the path he ought to pursue, he struck immediately into it, and giving his signet to the servant to assure Lord Dundoff of his obedience, he mounted a horse which had been brought to the town end for that purpose, and setting off full speed allowed nothing to stay him till he reached Dumbarton Castle. There, hearing that Wallace had gone to Butte, he threw himself into a boat, implying every oar reached that island in a shorter space of time than the voyage had ever before been completed. Being now conducted into the presence of the Chief, he narrated his dismal tale with the simplicity and pathos which would have instantly drawn the retributive sword of Wallace had he no kinsmen to avenge, no friend to release from the southern dungeons. But as the case stood, his bleeding grandfather lay before his eyes, and the axe hung over the heads of the most virtuous nobles of his country. He heard the chieftain to an end, without speaking or altering the stern attention of his countenance. But at the close, with an augmented suffusion of blood in his face, and his brows denouncing some tremendous fate, he rose. Sir John Graham, said he, I tend you. Wither, demanded Murray. To ere, answered Wallace, this moment I will set out for Dumbarton to bring away the sinews of my strength. God will be our speed, and then this arm shall show how I loved that good old man. Your men, interrupted Graham, are already awaiting you on the opposite shore. I presume to command for you. For on entering Dumbarton and finding you were absent, after having briefly recounted my errand to Lord Lennox, I dared to interpret your mind, and to order Sir Alexander's crim- jaw, and Sir Robert Kirkpatrick, with all your own force, to follow me to the coast of Renfrew. Thank you, my friend, cried Wallace, grasping his hand. May I ever have such interpreters. I cannot stay to bid your uncle farewell, said he to Lord Andrew. Remain to tell him to bless me with his prayers. And then, dear Murray, follow me to ere. Ignorant of what the stranger had imparted, at the side of the chiefs approaching from the castle gate, Edward hastened with the news that all was ready for embarkation. He was hurrying out his information when the altered countenance of his general checked him. He looked at the stranger, his features were agitated and severe. He turned toward his cousin, all there was grave and distressed. Again he glanced at Wallace, no word was spoken, but every look threatened, and Edwin saw him leap into the boat followed by the stranger. The astonished boy, though unnoticed, would not be left behind, and stepping in also sat down beside his chief. I shall follow you in an hour, exclaimed Murray. The seamen pushed off, then giving loose their swelling sail, in less than ten minutes the light vessel was wafted out of the little harbour, and turning a point those in the castle saw it no more. End of Chapter 28