 CHAPTER 76. This morning, instead of coming, as usual, directly to their acknowledged protector, the Lothian chieftains were seen at different parts of the camp, closely conversing in groups, and when any of Wallace's officers approached, they separated or withdrew to a greater distance. This strange conduct Wallace attributed to its right source, and thought of Bruce with the sigh, when he contemplated the variable substance of these men's minds. However, he was so convinced that nothing but the proclamation of Bruce, and that Prince's personal exertions, could preserve his country from falling again into the snare from which he had just snatched it, that he was preparing to set out for Perthshire with such persuasions, when Kerr hastily entered his tent. He was followed by the Lord Sulis, Lord Buckin, and several other chiefs of equally hostile intentions. Sulis did not hesitate to declare his errand. We come, Sir William Wallace, by the command of the regent, and the assembled abstains of Scotland, to take these brave troops, which have performed such good service to their country, from the power of a man who, we have every reason to believe, means to turn their arms against the liberties of the realm. Without a pardon from the state, without the signature of the regent, in contempt of court which, having found you guilty of high treason, had in mercy delayed to pronounce the sentence on your crime, you have presumed to place yourself at the head of the national troops, and to take to yourself the merit of a victory won by their prowess alone. Your designs are known, and the authority you have despised is now roused to punish. You are to accompany us this day to Stirling. We have brought a guard of four thousand men to compel your obedience. Before the indignant spirit of Wallace, could utter the answer his rungs dictated, Bothwell, who at sight of the regent's troops, had hastened to his general's tent, entered, followed by his chieftains. Were your guard forty thousand instead of four, cried he. They should not force our commander from us. They should not extinguish the glory of Scotland beneath the traitorous devices of hell-engineered envy and murderous cowardice. Soulis turned on him with eyes of fire, and laid his hand on his sword. I, cowardice, reiterated Bothwell. The midnight ravisher, the slanderer of virtue, the vitreya of his country, knows in his heart that he fears to draw ought but the assassin's steel. He dreads the scepter of honour. Wallace must fall, that vice and her votaries may reign in Scotland. A thousand brave Scots lie under these sods, and a thousand yet survive who may share their graves. But they never will relinquish their invincible leader into the hands of traitors. The clamours of the citadel of Stirling now resounded through the tent of Wallace. Invectives, accusations, threatening reproaches, and revilings joined in one turbulent opera. Human swords were drawn, and Wallace, in attempting to beat down the weapons of Soulis and Buckan, aimed at Bothwell's heart, must have received the point of Soulis in his own body, had he not grasped the blade, and wrenching it out of the chief's hands, broke it into shivers. Such be the fate of every sword which Scott draws against Scott, cried he, put up your weapons, my friends. The arm of Wallace is not shrunk, that he could not defend himself. Did he think that violence were necessary? Here my determination once and forever added he. I acknowledge no authority in Scotland but the laws. The present regent and his abthanes outraged them in every ordinance, and I should indeed be a traitor to my country, did I submit to such men's behests. I shall not obey their summons to sterling, neither will I permit a hostile arm to be raised in this camp against their delegates, unless the violence begins with them. That is my answer. Uttering these words, he motioned Bothwell to follow him, and left the tent. Crossing a rude plank bridge, which then lay over the esker, he met Lord Rothfen, guided by Edwin and Lord Sinclair. The latter came to inform Wallace that ambassadors from Edward awaited his presence at Roslyn. They came to offer peace to our distracted country, cried Sinclair. Then answered Wallace, I shall not delay going where I may hear the terms. Horses were brought, and during their short ride, to prevent the impassioned representations of the still-raging Bothwell, Wallace communicated to his not less indignant friends the particulars of the scene he had left. These contentions must be terminated, added he, and with God's blessing a few days and they shall be so. Heaven granted return Sinclair, thinking he referred to the proposed negotiation. If Edward's offers be at all reasonable, I would urge you to accept them, otherwise invasion from without, and civil commotion within, will probably make a desert of poor Scotland. Rothfen interrupted him. Despair not, my lord! Whatever be the fate of this embassy, let us remember that it is our steadiest friend who decides, and that his arm is still with us to repel invasion. To chastise treason, Edwin's eyes turned with a direful expression upon Wallace, while he lowly murmured, treason, hydra treason. Wallace understood him and answered, Grievous are the alternatives, my friends, which your love for me would persuade you even to welcome. But that which I shall choose will, I trust, indeed lay the landed peace, or point its hostilities to the only aim against which a true scot ought to direct his sword at this crisis. Being arrived at the gate of Roslyn, Wallace, regardless of those ceremonials which often delay the business they pretend to dignify, ended it once into the hall where the ambassadors sat. Baron Hilton was one, and led a spencer. Father of the young and violent envoy of that name was the other. At sight of the Scottish chief they rose, and the good Baron, believing he came on a propitious errand, smiling said, Sir William Wallace, it is your private ear I am commanded to seek. While speaking he looked on Sinclair and the other lords. These chiefs are, as myself, replied Wallace, but I will not impede your embassy by crossing the wishes of your master in a trifle. He then turned to his friends, indulged the monarch of England in making me the first acquainted with that which can only be a message to the whole nation. The chiefs withdrew, and Hilton, without further parley, opened the mission. He said that King Edward, more than ever impressed with the wondrous military talents of Sir William Wallace, and solicits us to make a friend of so heroic an enemy and sent him an offer of grace, which, if he condemned, must be the last. He offered him a theatre whereon he might display his peerless endowments to the admiration of the world, the kingdom of Ireland, with its yet unreaped fields of glory, and all the ample riches of its abundant provinces, should be his. Edward only required, in return for this royal gift, that he should abandon the cause of Scotland, swear fealty to him for Ireland, and resign into his hands one whom he had proscribed as the most ungrateful of traitors. In double acknowledgment for the latter sacrifice Wallace need only send to England a list of those Scottish lords against whom he bore resentment, and their fates should be ordered according to his dictates. Edward concluded his offers by inviting him immediately to London to be invested with his new sovereignty, and Hilton ended his address by showing him the madness of abiding in a country where almost every chief, secretly or openly, carried a dagger against his life, and therefore he exhorted him no longer to contend for a nation so unworthy of freedom that he'd bore with impatience the only man who had the courage to maintain its independence by virtue alone. Wallace replied calmly and without hesitation. To this message an honest man can make but one reply, As well might your sovereign exact of me to dethrone the angels of heaven as to require me to subscribe to his proposals. They do but mock me, and aware of my rejection they are thus delivered to throw the whole blame of this cruelly persecuting war upon me. Edward knows that as a knight a true scot and a man I should dishonour myself to accept even life I or the lives of all my kindred upon these terms. Hilton interrupted him by declaring the sincerity of Edward, and contrasting it with the ingratitude of the people whom he had served, he conjured him with every persuasive of rhetoric, every entreaty dictated by a mind that revered the very firmness he strove to shake, to relinquish his faithless country, and become the friend of a king ready to receive him with open arms. Wallace shook his head, and with an incredulous smile which spoke his thoughts of Edward, while his eyes beamed kindness upon Hilton, he answered, Can a man who would bribe me to betray a friend be faithful in friendship? But that is not the way to with me. I was not brought up in those schools, my good baron, which teach that sound policy or true self-interest can be separated from virtue. When I was a boy my father often repeated to me this proverb, D. C. T. B. Verham, on Estas Optima Rhaerum, Numquam Sevili Subnexu Vivitua Filii note, This saying of the parental teacher of Wallace is recorded, it means, Know of a certainty that virtue, the best of possessions, never can exist under the bond of civility. End note, I learned it then, I have since made it the standard of my actions, and I answer your monarch in a word. Were all my countrymen to resign their claims to the liberty which is their right, I alone would declare the independence of my country, and by God's assistance while I live acknowledge no other master than the laws of St. David and the legitimate heir of his blood. The glow of resolute patriotism which overspread his countenance while he spoke was reflected by a fluctuating colour on that of Hilton. Noble chief cried he, I admire while I regret, I revere the virtue which I am even now constrained to denounce. These principles bravest of men might have suited the simple ages of Greece and Rome. A focian or a fibricius might have uttered the like, and compelled the homage of their enemies, but in these days such magnanimity is considered frenzy and ruin is its consequence. An shallow Christian cried Wallace, reddening with a flush of honest shame, deem the virtue which even heathens practised with veneration, of too pure a nature to be exercised by men taught by Christ himself, there is blasphemy in the idea and I can hear no more. Hilton in confusion excused his argument by declaring that it proceeded from his observations on the conduct of men. And shall we, replied Wallace, follow a multitude to do evil? I act to one being alone. Edward must acknowledge his supremacy, and by that know that my soul is above all price. Am I answered, said Hilton, and then hastily interrupting himself, he added, in a voice even of supplication. Your fate rests on your reply. O noblest of warriors, consider only for the day. Not for a moment, said Wallace, I am sensible of your kindness, but my answer to Edward has been pronounced. Hilton turned sorrowfully away, and led to Spencer Rose. Sir William Wallace, my part of the Embassy, must be delivered to you in the assembly of your chieftains. In the congregation of my camp returned he, an opening in the door of the anti-room, in which his friend stood, he sent Edwin to summon his chiefs to the platform before the council tent. End of Chapter 76. The Scottish Chiefs by Miss Jane Porter. Chapter 77, Wallace's Tent. When Wallace approached his tent he found not only the captains of his own army, but the followers of Sulis and the chieftains of Lothian. He looked on this range of his enemies with a fearless eye, and passing through the crowd took his station beside the ambassadors on the platform of the tent. The venerable Hilton turned away with tears on his veteran cheeks as the chief advanced, and led to Spencer came forward to speak. Wallace, with a dignified action, requested his leave for a few minutes, and then addressing the congregated warriors, unfolded to them the offer of Edward to him and his reply, and now added he, the ambassador of England, is at liberty to declare his master's alternative. The dispenser again advanced, but the acclamations with which the followers of Wallace acknowledged the nobleness of his answer excited such an opposite clamour on the side of the Sulis party that the dispenser was obliged to mount a war carriage which stood near, and to vociferate long and loudly for silence before he could be heard. But the first words which caught the ears of his audience acted like a spell, and seemed to hold them in breathless attention. Since Sir William Wallace rejects the grace of his liege lord, Edward King of England, offered to him this once, and never to be again repeated, thus set the King in his clemency to the earls, barons, knights, and commonality of Scotland. To every one of them, chief and vassal, accepting the aforesaid incorrigible rebel, he, the royal Edward, grants an amnesty of all their past reasons against his sacred person and rule, provided within twenty-four hours after they hear the words of this proclamation they acknowledge their disloyalty with repentance, and laying down their arms swear eternal fealty to their only lawful ruler Edward, the lord of the whole island from sea to sea. La dispenser then proclaimed the King of England to be now on the borders with an army of a hundred thousand men, ready to march with fire and sword into the heart of the kingdom, and put to the rack all of every sex, age, and condition who should venture to dispute his rights. Lord added he, while you may yet not only grasp the mercy extended to you, but the rewards and honors he is ready to bestow, adhere to that unhappy man, and by tomorrow's sunset your offended King will be on these hills, and mercy shall be no more. Death is the doom of Sir William Wallace, and a similar fate to every Scott who after this hour dares to give him food, shelter, or sucker. He is the prisoner of King Edward, and thus I demand him at your hands. Wallace spoke not, but with an unmoved countenance looked around upon the assembly. Edward precipitated himself into his arms. Both wells full soul, then forced utterance from his laboring breast. Tell your sovereign, cried he, that he mistakes. We are the conquerors who ought to dictate terms of peace. Wallace is our invincible leader, our redeemer from slavery, the earthly hope in whom we trust, and it is not in the power of men nor devils to bribe us to betray our benefactor. Away to your King and tell him that Andrew Murray, and every honest Scott, is ready to live or to die by the side of Sir William Wallace, and by this good sword I swear the same, cried Ruthven, and so do I, cried Scringegour, or may the standard of Scotland be my winding sheet, or may the Clyde swallow us up quick, exclaimed Lockhart of Lee, shaking his mailed hand at the ambassadors. But not another cheap, spoke for Wallace. Even Sinclair was intimidated, and like others who wished him well, he feared to utter his sentiments. But most, oh, shame to Scotland and to man, cast up their bonnets and cried aloud, Long live King Edward, the only legitimate Lord of Scotland, at this outcry which was echoed even by some in whom he had confided, while it peeled around him like a burst of thunder. Wallace threw out his arms, as if he would yet protect Scotland from herself. Oh, desolate people exclaimed he, in a voice of piercing woe. Too credulous of fair speeches, and not aware of the calamities which are coming upon you. Call to remembrance the miseries you have suffered, and start, before it is too late, from this last snare of your oppressor. Have I yet to tell ye that he's embraced his death? Oh, look yet to heaven, and ye shall find a rescue. Bruce seemed to rise at that moment in pale but gallant apparition before this soul. Note, this speech is almost verbatim from one of our old historians. Seize that rebellious man, cried Sully's to his marshals. In the name of the King of England, I command you. And in the name of the King of Kings I denounce death on him who attempts it, exclaimed Pothwell. Throwing himself between Wallace and his men, put forth a hostile hand toward him, and this bugle shall call a thousand resolute swords to lay this platform in blood. Wallace, followed by his knights, pressed forward to execute his treason himself. Scrimgore, Ruthven, Lockhart, and Kerr rushed before their friend. Edwin, starting forward, drew his sword, and the clash of steel was heard. Bothwell and Sully's grappled together. The falchion of Ruthven gleamed amidst a hundred swords, and blood flowed around. The voice, the arm of Wallace, in vain sought to enforce peace. He was not heard. He was not felt in that dreadful warfare. Kerr fell with a gasp at his feet, and breathed no more. At such a sight the soul struck Wallace Rungy's hands, and exclaimed in bitter anguish. Oh, my country! Was it for these horrors that my Marian died? I became a homeless wretch, and passed my days and nights in fields of carnage. Venerable Ma, dear and gallant Graham, is this the consummation for which you fell? At that moment Bothwell, having disabled Sully's, would have blown his bugle to call up his men to a general conflict, but Wallace snatched the horn from his hand, and springing upon the very war carriage from which Lourdes Spencer had proclaimed Edward's embassy. He drew forth his sword, and stretching the mighty arm that held it over the throng, with more than mortal energy he exclaimed. Peace, men of Scotland! And for the last time hear the voice of William Wallace. A dead silence immediately ensued, and he proceeded. If you have ought of nobleness within ye, if a delusion more fell than witchcraft, have not blinded your senses, look beyond this field of horror, and behold your country free. Edward, in these apparent demands, sews for peace. Did we not drive his armies into the sea? And were we resolved, he never could cross our borders more. What is it then you do, when you again put your necks under his yoke? Did he not seek to bribe me to betray you? And yet, when I refuse to purchase life and the world's rewards in such baseness you, you forget that you are free-born Scots that you are the victors, and he the vanquished, and you give not sell your birthright to the demands of a tyrant, you yield yourself to his extortions, his oppressions, his revenge. Think not he will spare the people. He would have sold to purchase his bitterest enemy, or allow them to live unmanacled, who possess the power of resistance. On the day in which you are in his hands, you will feel that you have exchanged honour for disgrace, liberty for bondage, life for death. Me you are bore, and may God in your extremist hour forget that injustice, and pardon the faithful blood you have shed this day. I draw this sword for you no more. But there yet lives a prince, a descendant of the royal heroes of Scotland, whom providence may conduct to be your preserver. Reject the proposals of Edward. Dare to defend the freedom you now possess, and that prince will soon appear to crown your patriotism with glory and happiness. We acknowledge no prince but King Edward of England cried buccan, his countenance, our glory, his presence, our happiness. The exclamation was reiterated by a most disgraceful majority on the ground. Wallace was transfixed. Then cried Leda Spencer in the first pause of the tumult, to every man, woman, and child throughout the realm of Scotland, accepting Sir William Wallace, I proclaim in the name of King Edward, pardon and peace. At these words several hundred Scottish chieftains dropped on their knees before Wallace to Spencer, and murmured their vows of fealty. Indignant grieved, Wallace took his helmet from his head, and throwing his sword into the hand of Bothwell. That weapon cried he, which I rested from this very King Edward, and with which I twice drove him from our borders, I give it to you. In your hands it may again serve Scotland. I relinquish a soldier's name on the spot where I humbled England three times in one day, and where I now see my victorious country deliver herself bound into the grasp of the vanquished. I go without sordor-bockler from this dishonoured field, and what Scott, my public or private enemy, would dare to strike the unguarded head of William Wallace. As he spoke he threw his shield and helmet to the ground, and leaping from the war carriage took his course with a fearless and dignified step through the parting ranks of his enemies, who, or struck, or kept in check by a suspicion that others might not second the attack they would have made on him. Dirst not lift an arm, or breathe a word, as he passed. Wallace had adopted this manner of leaving the ground in hopes, if it were possible, to awaken the least spark of honour in the breasts of his persecutors, to prevent the bloodshed which must ensue between his friends and them, should they attempt to seize him. Edwin and Boswell immediately followed him, but Lockhart and Scrimgore remained to take charge of the remains of the faithful Curr, and to observe the tendency of the tumult which began to murmur amongst the lower orders of the bystanders. End of CHAPTER 77 Like suspicion of the region and his thanes and yet a panic struck pulse and enmity, which shrunk from supporting that Wallace, whom those thanes chose to abandon, carried the spirit of slavery from the platform before the council tent to the chieftains who thronged the ranks of Ruthpin, and even to the preservation of some few who had followed the golden-haired standard of Boswell. The brave troops of Lenarch, which the desperate battle of Dalkeep reduced to not more than sixty men, alone remained unmoved, so catching is the quilling spirit of doubt, abjectness, and fearful submission. In the moment when the indignant Ruthpin saw his Perthshire legions rolling off toward the trumpet of Leda Spencer, Scrimgore placed himself at the head of the men of Lenarch, unfurling the banner of Scotland, he marched with a steady step to the tent of Boswell, where he did not doubt that Wallace had retired. He found him assaging the impassioned grief of Edwin, and striving to moderate the vehement wrath of the faithful Murray. "'Poor not, out the energy of your soul upon these worthless men,' said he, "'leave them to the fates they seek. The fates they have incurred by the innocent blood shed this day. The brave hearts who yet remain loyal to this country are insufficient to stem, at this spot, the torrent of corruption. Retire beyond the Forth, my friend. Rally all true Scots around Hunting Tower. Let the royal inmate proclaim himself and, at the foot of the Grampians, lock the gates of the Highlands upon our enemies. From those bulwarks he will issue and strengthen Scotland may again be free.' "'Free? But never more honoured,' cried Edwin, "'never more beloved by me. Ungrateful, treacherous space-land,' added he, starting on his feet, and raising his clest hands with the vehement abjuration of an indignant spirit. Oh, that the salt sea would engulf thee at once. That thy name and thy ingratitude could be no more remembered, I will never wear a sword for her again.' "'Edwin!' ejaculated Wallace in a reproachful yet tender tone. "'Exort me not to forgive my country,' returned he. "'Tell me to take my deadliest photo my breast, to pardon the assassin, who strikes his steel into my heart, and I will obey you. But to pardon Scotland for the injury she has done to you? For the disgrace with which herself debasement stains this cheek I never, never can. I abhor these sons of Lucifer.' "'Think not, noblest of masters, dearest of friends,' cried he throwing himself at Wallace's feet, "'that I will ever shine in the light of those envious stars which have displayed the sun. No tibby sully shall henceforth be the impress on my shield. To thee alone would I ever turn, and till your beams restore your country and revive me. The springing laurels of Edwin Rutheran shall wither where they grow.' Wallace folded him to his heart, and tears stained in his eyes, while he said in a low voice, "'If thou art mine, thou art Scotland's.' "'Me?' she rejects. "'Nisterious heaven-wheels that I should quit my post, but for thee, Edwin, as a relic of the fond love, I yet bear this wretched country, abide by her, bear with her, cherish her, defend her for my sake, and if Bruce lives, he will be to thee a second Wallace, a friend, a brother.' Edwin listened, wept, and sobbed, but his heart was fixed, unable to speak. He broke from his friend's arms, and hurried into an interior apartment to subdue his emotions by pouring them forth to God. Edwin joined in determined opinion, with Bothwell, that if ever a civil war could be sanctified, this was the time, and in spite of all that Wallace could urge against the madness of contending for his supremacy over a nation which would not yet yield him obedience. Still they remained firm in their resolution. Bruce they hardly dared hope could recover, and to relinquish the guiding hand of their best-approved leader at this crisis was a sacrifice they said no earthly power should compel them to make. So far from it, cried Lord Bothwell, dropping on his knees and grasping the cross-hilt of his sword in both hands, I swear, by the blood of the crucified Lord of this ungrateful world, that should Bruce die, I will obey no other king of Scotland than William Wallace. Wallace turned Ashley pale as he listened to this vow. At that moment Skrimagor entered, followed by the Lanark veterans, and all kneeling down, repeated the oath of Bothwell, then starting up called on the outraged chief by the unburied corpse of his murdered cur, to lead them forth and avenge them of his enemies. When the agitation of his soul would allow him to speak to this faithful group, Wallace stretched his hands over them and with such tears as a father would shed who looks on the children he is to behold no more. He said in a subdued and faltering voice, God will avenge our murdered friend, my sword is sheathed for ever. May that holy being who is the true and best king of the virtuous always be present with you. I feel your love and I appreciate it, but Bothwell, Ruthwin, Lockhart, Skrimagor, my faithful Lanark followers, leave me a while to compose my scattered thoughts. Let me pass this night alone, and to-morrow you shall know the resolution of your grateful Wallace. The shades of evening were closing in, and the men of Lanark, first obtaining his permission to keep guard before the wood which skirted the tent, respectfully kissing his hand, withdrew. Ruthwin called Edwin from the recess whither he had retired to unburden his grief, but as soon as he heard that it was the resolution of his friends to preserve the authority of Wallace or to perish in the contest, the gloom passed from his fair brow. A smile of triumph parted his lips, and he exclaimed, All will be well again. We shall force this deluded nation to recognize her safety and her honor. While the determined chiefs held discourse to congeal with the wishes of the youthful knight, Wallace sat almost silent. He seemed revolving some momentous idea. He frequently turned his eyes on the speakers with a fixed regard, which appeared rather full of a grave sorrow than demonstrative of any sympathy on the subjects of their discussion. On Edwin he at times looked with penetrating tenderness, and when the bell from the neighboring convent sounded the hour of rest he stretched out his hand to him with a smile which he wished should speak comfort as well as that of affection. But the soul spoke more eloquently than he had intended. His smile was mournful, and the attempt to render it otherwise, like a transient light over a dark supple cur, only the more distinctly showed the gloom and melancholy within. And am I, too, to leave you, said Edwin? Yes, my brother, replied Wallace. I have much to do with my own thoughts this night. We separate now to meet more gladly hereafter. I must have solitude to arrange my plans. Tomorrow you shall know them. Meanwhile, farewell. As he spoke he pressed the affectionate youth to his breast, and warmly grasping the hands of his three other friends bade them an earnest adieu. Both well-engered a moment of the tentor, and looking back, let your first plan be that tomorrow you lead us to Lord Soli's quarters to teach the trader what it is to be a scot and a man. My plan shall be deserving of my brave colleagues, replied Wallace, and whether they be executed on this or on the other side of the earth, you shall find, my long-tried Bothwell, that Scotland's peace and the honour of her best sons are the dearest consideration of your friend. When the door closed, and Wallace was left alone, he stood for a while in the midst of the tent, listening to the departing steps of his friends. When the last sound died in his ear, I shall hear them no more, cried he, and throwing himself into his seat, he remained for an hour in a trance of grievous thoughts. Melancholy remembrances and prospects dire for Scotland pressed upon his surcharged heart. It is to God alone I must confide my country, cried he, his mercy will pity its madness and forgive its deep transgressions. My duty is to remove the object of ruin far from the power of any longer exciting jealousy or awakening zeal. Of these words he took a pen in his hand to write to Bruce. He briefly narrated the events which compelled him, if he would avoid the grief of having occasioned a civil war, to quit his country forever. The general hostility of the nobles, the unresisting acquiescence of the people in measures which menaced his life and sacrificed the freedom for which he had so long fought, convinced him, he said, that his warlike commission was now closed. He was summoned by heaven to exchange the field for the Cloyster, and to the monastery at Charter he was now hastening, to dedicate the remainder of his days to the peace of a future world. He then exhorted Bruce to confide the Lord's rift bin and bothwell as his soul would commune with his spirit, for he would find them true unto death. He counseled him, as the leading measure to circumvent the treason of Scotland's enemies, to go immediately to Kilcham Castle, where he knew resources would be, for Laka'al, who retired thither in the last approach of Dewarn, meaning to call out his vassals for that emergency, needed it not then for the Battle of Dalketh was fought and gained before they could leave their heights, and the victor did not want them afterward. To use those brave and simple-hearted men for his establishment on the throne of his kingdom, Wallace advised Bruce. And so, amidst the natural fortresses of the Highlands, he might recover his health, collect his friends, and openly proclaim himself. Then, added he, when Scotland is your own, let its bulwarks be its mountains and its people's arms, dismantle and raise to the ground the castles of those base chiefs who have only embattled them to betray and enslave their country. Though intent on these political suggestions he ceased not to remember his own brave engines of war, and he earnestly conjured his prince that he would wear the valiant Kirkpatrick as a buckler on his heart, and that he would place Skrigmoor with his larnick veterans, and the faithful Grimsby next to him as his bodyguard, and that he would love and cherish the brave and tender Edwin for his sake. When my prince and friends receive this, added he, Wallace shall have bitten an eternal farewell to Scotland, but his heart will be amidst its hills. My king and the friends most dear to me will still be there. The earthly part of my beloved wife rests within its bosom, but I go to rejoin her soul, to meet it in the vigils of days consecrated wholly to the blessed being in whose presence she rejoices forever. This is no sad destiny, my dear Bruce. Our almighty captain recalls me from dividing with you the glory of maintaining the liberty of Scotland, but he brings me closer to himself. I leave the plains of Gilgau to tread with his angels the courts of my God, more not than my absence, for my prayers will be with you till we are again united in the only place where you can fully know me as I am, thine and Scotland's never-dying friend. Start not at the blood efflet, my body may sink into the grave, but the affections of my immortal spirit are eternal as its essence, and in earth or in heaven I am ever yours. With the endearing Helen, my heart's sister, be near your couch when you read this. Tell her that Wallace, in idea, presses her virgin cheek with a brother's farewell, and from his inmost soul he blesses her. Messages of respectful adduce he sent to Isabella, Lady Ruthen, and the sage of Equedown. Then kneeling down in that posture he wrote his last invocations for the prosperity and the happiness of Bruce. His letter finished, with a more tranquil mind he addressed Lord Ruthen. Detailing to him his reasons for leaving such faithful friends so clandestinely, and after mentioning his purpose of proceeding to France, he ended with those expressions of gratitude which the worthy chiefs so well deserved, and exhorting him to transfer his public seal for him to the magnanimous and royal brews. Closed the letter, with begging him for the sake of his friend, his king and his country, to return immediately with all his followers to Hunting Tower, and there to rally round their prince. His letter to Skrigmor spoke nearly the same language, but when he began to write to Bothwell, to bid him that farewell which his heart foreboded would be for ever in this world, to part from this his steady companion in arms, his dauntless champion, he lost some of his composure, and his handwriting testified the emotion of his mind. How then was he shaken when he addressed the young and devoted Edwin, the brother of his soul? He dropped the pen from his hand. At that moment he felt all he was going to relinquish, and he exclaimed, O Scotland, my ungrateful country, what is it you do? Is it thus that you repay your most faithful servants? Is it not enough that the wife of my bosom, the companion of my youth should be torn from me by your enemies, but your hand must rest from my bereaved heart its every other solace? You snatch from me my friends you would deprive me of my life. To preserve you from that crime I embitter the cup of death. I go far from the tombs of my father's from the grave of my Marian where I have finally hoped to rest. His head sunk on his arm, his heart gave way under the pressure of accumulated regrets, and floods of tears poured from his eyes. Deep and frequent were his sighs, but none answered him. Friendship was far distant, and where was that gentle being who would have soothed his sorrow on her bosom? She it was, he lamented. Drury, dreary solitude cried he, looking around within a gas perception of all that he had lost. How I have been mocked for these three long years! What is renown? What the loud acclaim of admiring throngs? What the loud acclaim of admiring throngs? What the bended knee of worshiping gratefulness, but breath and vapor? It seems to shelter the mountain's top. The blast comes, it rolls from its side, and the lonely hill is left to all the storm. So stand I, my Marian, when bereft of thee, in wheel or woe thy smiles thy warm embrace were mine. My head reclined on that faithful breast, and still I found my home, my heaven. But now, desolate and alone, ruin is around me. Destruction waits on all who would steal one, pang from the racket heart of William Wallace. Even pity is no more for me. Take me, then, O power mercy! cried he, stretching forth his hands. Take me to thyself. At these words a peel of thunder burst on his ear, and seemed to roll over his tent, till, passing off toward the west, it died away in long and solemn reverberation. Wallace rose from his knee, on which he had sunk at this awful response to his heaven-directed adoration. Thou callest me, my father, cried he, with a holy confidence dilating his soul. I go from the world to thee. I come, and before thy altars, know no human weakness. In a paroxysm of sacred enthusiasm he rushed from the tent, and reckless, whether he went, struck into the depths of Rosalind Woods. With the steps of the wind he pierced their remotest thickets. He reached at their boundary. It was traversed by a rapid stream, but that did not stop his course. He sprung over it, and ascending its moonlight bank, was startled by the sound of his name. Grimsby, attended by a youth, stood before him. The veteran expressed amazement at meeting his master alone at this hour, unhelmeted and unarmed, and in so dangerous a direction. The road, said he, between this and Stirling, is beset with your enemies. Instead of noticing this information Wallace inquired what news he brought from Hunting Tower. The worst, he said. By this time the royal bruce is no more. This gasped convulsively and fell against a tree. Grimsby paused. In a few minutes the heart-struck chief was able to speak. Listen not to my groans for unhappy Scotland. Show me all that is in this last vial of wrath. Grimsby informed him that Bruce, being so far recovered as to have left his sick chamber for the family apartment, while he was sitting with the ladies, a letter was brought to Lady Helen. She opened it, read a few lines, and fell senseless into the arms of her sister. Bruce snatched the packet, but not a word did he speak, till he had perused it to the end. It was from the Countess Straiton, written in the triumph of revenge, cruelly exalting in what she termed the demonstration of Wallace's guilt, congratulating herself on having been the primary means of discovering it, and boasting that his once adored Scotland now held him in such detestation as to have doomed him to die. It was this denunciation which had struck to the soul of Helen, and while the anxious lady Rufin removed her inanimate form into another room. Bruce read the barbarous triumphs of this disappointed woman. No power on earth can save him now, continued she. Your doting heart must yield him, Helen, to another rest than your bridal chamber. His iron breast has met with others as adamantine as his own. A hypocrite. He feels not pity. He knows no beat of human sympathies, and like a rock he falls unpittied, undeplored. Undeplored by all but you, lost self-deluded girl. My noble lord, the princely Dewarne, informs me that William Wallace would be burned as a double-trader in England, and a price is now set upon his head in Scotland, hence there is safety for him no more. Those his base-born heart has outraged will be avenged, and his cries for mercy who will answer? No voice on earth. None dare support the man whom friends and enemies abandoned to destruction. Yes, cried Bruce, starting from his seat. I will support him, thou damned traitress. Bruce will declare himself. Bruce will throw himself before his friend, and in his breast receive every hour meant for that godlike heart. Yes, cried he, glancing on the terrified looks of Isabella who believed that his delirium was returned. I would snatch him in these arms from their murderous flames. Did all the fiends of hell guard their infernal fire? Not a word more did he utter, but darting from the apartment was soon seen before the Barbican gate, armed from head to foot. Grimsby stood there, to whom he called to bring him a horse, after that the light of Scotland was in danger. Grimsby, who understood by that term his beloved master was in peril, instantly obeyed, and Bruce, as instantly mourning, struck his rows into the horse, and was out of sight ere Grimsby could reach his stirrup to follow. But that faithful soldier speeded after him like the wind and came in view of Bruce just as he was leaping a chasm in the mountain path. The horse struck his heel against a loose stone, and it giving way he fell headlong into the deep ravine. At the moment of his disappearance Grimsby rushed toward the spot and saw the animal struggling in the agonies of death at the bottom. Bruce lay insensible amongst some bushes which grew nearer at the top. With difficulty the honest Englishman got him dragged to the surface of the hill and finding all attempts to recover him ineffectual. He laid him on his own beast, and so carried him slowly back to the castle. The assiturities of the sage of Erkdown restored him to life, but not to recollection. The fever returned on him with a delirium so hopeless of recovery continued Grimsby, that the Lady Helen, who would again seem like an inspired angel among us, has sent me with this youth to implore you to come to Hunting-Tower, and there embattle yourself against your own and your prince's enemies. Send me, cried Walter Hay, grasping Wallace's hand, send me back to Lady Helen, and let me tell her that our benefactor, the best guardian of our country, will not abandon us. Should you depart, Scotland's genius will go with you. Again she must sink, again she will be in ruins. Devalance will regain possession of my dear lady, and you will not be near to save her. Grimsby, Walter, my friends, cried Wallace in an agitated voice, I do not abandon Scotland. She drives me from her. Would she have allowed me, I would have borne her in my arms to my latest gasp, but it must not be so. I resign her into the almighty hands to which I commit myself. They will also preserve the Lady Helen from violence. I cannot forgo my trust. For the Bruce also, if he live, he will protect her for my sake, and should he die, Bothwell and Ruthben will cherish her for their own. But you will return with us to hunting tower, cried Grimsby. Disguised in these peasants' garments, which we have brought for the purpose, you may pass through the legions of the regent with perfect security. Let me implore you, if not for your own sake for ours, pity our desolation, and save yourself for them who can know no safety when you are gone. Walter clung to his arm while uttering the supplication. Wallace looked tenderly upon him. I would save myself, and I will, please God said he, but by no means unworthy of myself. I go, but not under any disguise. Openly have I defended Scotland, and openly will I pass through her lands. The chalice of heaven consecrated me the champion of my country, and no Scott dare lift a hostile hand against this anointed head. The soul of Wallace swelled high, but devoutly while uttering this. Whether you go, cried Grimsby, let me follow you, enjoy your sorrow. And me too, my benefactor, rejoined Walter. And when you look on us, think not that Scotland is altogether ungrateful. My faithful friend, returned he, whither I go I must go alone. And as a proof of your love grant me your obedience this once. Rest among these thickets till morning. At sunrise repair to our camp. There you will know my destination. But till Bruce proclaims himself at the head of the country's armies, for my sake, never reveal me to mortal man, that he who lies destabilitated by sickness that hunting tower is other than Sir Thomas DeLongville. Rest we cannot, replied Grimsby, but still we will obey our master. You commend me to adhere to Bruce, to serve him till the hour of his death. I will. But should he die, then I may seek you and be again your faithful servant. You will find me before the cross of Christ, returned Wallace, with saints, my fellow soldiers, and God my only King. Till then, Grimsby, farewell. Walter, carry my fidelity to your mistress. She will share my thoughts with the blessed Virgin of Heaven, for in all my prayers shall her name be remembered. Grimsby and Walter, struck by the holy solemnity of his manner, fell on their knees before him. Wallace raised his hands. Bless, O Father of Light, cried he, bless this unhappy land, when Wallace is no more, let his memory be lost in the virtues and prosperity of Robert Bruce. Grimsby sunk on the earth and gave way to a burst of manly sorrow. Walter hid his weeping face in the folds of his master's mantle, which had fallen from his shoulders to the ground. Lost in grief, no thought seemed to exist in the young man's heart, but the resolution to live only for his prosecuted benefactor, and to express this vow with all the energy of determined devotedness. He looked up to seek the face of Wallace, but Wallace had disappeared, and all that remained to the breaking hearts of his faithful servants was the tartan plaid which they had clasped in their arms. CHAPTER 79 LUMLOCK Wallace, having turned abruptly away from his lamenting servants, struck into the deep defiles of the Penthlin Hills. They pointed to different tracks. Aware that the determined affection of some of his friends might urge them to dare the perils attendant on his fellowship, he hesitated a moment which path to take. Certainly not toward Hunting Tower, to bring immediate destruction on its royal inhabitant, nor to any chieftain of the Highlands, to give rise to a spirit of civil warfare. Neither would he pursue the eastern track, for in that direction, as pointing to France, his friends would most likely seek him. He therefore turned his steps toward supports of Ier. The road was circuitous, but it would soon enough take him from the land of his fathers, from the country he must never see again. As morning dispelled the shades of night, it discovered still more dreary glooms. A heavy mist hung over the hills and rolled before him along the valley. Still he pursued his way. Although the day advanced, the vapors collected into thicker blackness and, floating down the heights, at last burst into a deluge of rain. All around was darkened by the descending water and the accumulating floods, dashing from the projecting crags above, swelled the burn in his path to a roaring river. Wallace stood in the torrent with its wild waves breaking against his sides. The rain fell on his uncovered head and the chilling blast site in his streaming hair. Looking around him, he paused amidst this tumult of nature. Must there be strife, even amongst the elements, to show that this is no longer a land for me? Spirits of these hills, he cried, pour not thus your rage on this banished man, a man without a friend, without a home. He started and smiled at his own adoration. The spirits of heaven launched not this tempest on a defenseless head, tis chance, but affliction shapes all things to its own likeness. Thou, oh my father, would not suffer any demon of the air to bend thy broken reed. Therefore reign on ye torrents. Ye are welcome to William Wallace. He can well breast the mountain storm who has stemmed the ingratitude of his country. Hills, rivers, and veils were measured by his solitary steps till entering on the heights of Clydesdale. The broad river of his native glen spread its endeared waters before him. Not a wave passed along that had not kissed the feet of some seen consecrated to his memory. Over the western hills lay the lands of his forefathers. There he had first drawn his breath. There he imbibed from the lips of his revered grandfather, now no more. Those lessons of virtue by which he had lived, and for which he was now ready to die. Far to the left stretched the wide domains of Lamington. There his youthful heart first felt the pulse of love. There all nature smiled upon him, for Marion was near and hope hailed him from every sunlit mountain's brow. Onward in the depths of the cliffs lay Ellersley, the home of his heart, where he had tasted the joys of paradise. But all there, like that once blessed place, now lay in one wide ruin. Shall I visit thee again, he said, as he hurried along the beatling crags? Ellersley, Ellersley, he cried. Tis no hero, no triumphant warrior that approaches. Receive, shelter thy deserted widowed master. I come, my Marion, to mourn thee in thine own domains. He flew forward, he ascended the cliffs. He rushed down the hazel crown pathway, but he was no longer smooth. Thistles and thickly interwoven underwood obstructed his steps. Breaking through them all, he churned the angle of the rock, the last screen between him and the view of his once beloved home. On this spot he used to stand on moonlit evenings, watching the graceful form of his Marion as she passed to and fro within her chamber. His eyes now turned instinctively to the point, but it gazed on vacancy. His home had disappeared. One solitary tower alone remained, standing like a hermit the last of his race, to mourn over the desolation of all by which it had once been surrounded. Not a human being now moved on the spot which, three years before, was thrum with his grateful vassals. Not a voice was now heard, where then sounded the harp of Halbert, where breathed the soul-entrancing song of his beloved Marion. Death cried he, striking his breast. How many ways hast thou to bereave poor mortality? All, all gone. My Marion sleeps in Bothwell, the faithful Halbert at her feet, and my peasantry of Lanark, how many of you have found untimely graves in the bosom of your vainly rescued country? A few steps forward, and he stood on a mound of moldering fragments, heaped over the pavement of what had been the hall. My wife's blood marks the stones beneath, he cried. He flung himself on the ruins and a grown burst from his heart. It echoed mournfully from the opposite rock. He started and gazed around. Solitude, he cried with a faint smile. Not is here, but Wallace and his sorrow. Marion, I call, and even thou does not answer me. Thou who didst ever at the sound of my voice. Look at me, love. He exclaimed, stretching his arms toward the sky. Look at me, and for once, till ever, cheer thy lonely heart-stricken Wallace. Tears choked his further utterance, and once more lay his head upon the stones. He wept in silence till exhausted nature found repose and sleep. The sun was gilding the gray summits of the ruined tower under whose shadow he lay, when Wallace slowly opened his eyes. Looking around him, he smote his breast, and with a heavy groan sunk back upon the stones. In the silence which succeeded this burst of memory, he thought he heard a rustling near him, and a half-suppressed sigh. He listened breathless. The sigh was repeated. He gently raised himself on his hand, and with an expectation he dared hardly whisper to himself, turned toward the spot once the sound proceeded. The branches of a rose-tree which had been planted by his Marion shook and scattered the leaves of its un-gathered flowers upon the brambles which grew beneath. Wallace rose in agitation. The skirts of a human form appeared, retreating behind the ruins. He advanced toward it and beheld Edwin, Ruth, then. The moment their eyes met, Edwin precipitated himself at his feet and, clinging to him, exclaimed, pardon me this pursuit, but we meet to part no more. Wallace raised him and strained him to his breast in silence. Edwin, in hardly articulate accents, continued, some kind power checked your hand when writing to your Edwin. You could not command him not to follow you. You left the letter unfinished, and thus I come to bless you for not condemning me to die of a broken heart. I did not write farewell to thee, cried Wallace, looking mournfully on him, but I meant it, for I must part from all I love in Scotland. It is my doom. The country needs me not, and I have need of heaven. I go into its outcourts at Chartres. Follow me there, dear boy, when thou hast accomplished thy noble career on earth, and then our gray hair shall mingle together over the altar of the God of peace, but now receive the farewell of thy friend. Return to Bruce, and be to him the dearest representative of William Wallace. Never, cried Edwin, thou alone art my prince, my friend, my brother, my all in this world. My parents, dear as they are, would have buried my youth in a cloister, but your name called me to honor, and to you, in life or in death, I dedicate my being. Then, returned Wallace, that honor summons you to the side of the dying Bruce. He is now in the midst of his foes. And where art thou, interrupted Edwin, who drove thee hence but enemies? Who lined these roads but reges sent to betray their benefactor? No, my friend, thy fate shall be my fate, thy woe, my woe. We live or we die together, the field, the cloister, or the tomb. All shall be welcomed by Edwin Ruth then, if they separate him not from thee. Seeing that Wallace was going to speak, and fearful that it was to repeat his commands to be left alone, he suddenly exclaimed with vehemence, Father of men and angels, grant me thy favor only as I am true to the vow I have sworn, never more to leave the side of Sir William Wallace. To urge the dangers in which such a resolution would expose this too faithful friend, Wallace knew would be in vain. He read an invincible determination in the eye and gesture of Edwin. And therefore, yielding to the demands of friendship, he threw himself upon his neck. For thy sake, Edwin, I will endure yet a wild mankind at large. Thy bloom of honor shall not be cropped by my hand. We will go together to France. And while I seek a probationary quiet in some of its remote cities, thou may asbear the standard of Scotland in the land of our ally against the proud enemies of Bruce. Make of me what you will, returned Edwin. Only do not divide me from yourself. Wallace explained to his friend his design of crossing the hills to Ayrshire, in some court of which he did not doubt finding some vessel bound for France. Edwin overturned this plan by telling him that in the moment the Abthanes repludged their secret faith to England, they sent orders into Ayrshire to watch the movements of Wallace's relations and to prevent their either hearing of or marching to the assistance of their wrong kinsmen. And besides this, no sooner was it discovered by the insurgent lords of Roslyn that he had disappeared from the camp. Then, supposing he meant to appeal to Philip, they dispatched expresses all along the Western and Eastern coasts. From the first subfort and Clyde to those of Salway and Berkwood upon Tweed to intercept him. On hearing this and that all avenues from the southern parts of his country were closed upon him, Wallace determined to try the north. Some bay in the Western Highlands might open its yet not ungrateful arms to set its benefactor free. If not by a ship, continued Edwin, a fisherman's boat would launch us from a country no longer worthy of you. Their course was then taken along the Cartland Craigs, at a distance from villages and mountain cots, which, learning from their verdant heights, seemed to invite the traveler to refreshment and repose. Though the sword of Wallace had won them this quiet, though his wisdom, like the hand of creation, had lately spread the barren hills with beauty as harvest, yet had an ear of corn been asked in his name, it would have been denied. A price was set upon his head, and the lies of all who should succor him would be forfeited. He who had given bread and homes to thousands was left to perish, had nowhere to shelter his head. Edwin looked anxiously on him as at times they sped silently along. Ah, he thought, this heroic endurance of evil is the true cross of our celestial captain. Let who will carry his insignia to the holy land. Here is the man who bears the real substance that walks undismayed in the path of his sacrifice lord. The black plumage of a common highland bonnet, which Edwin had purchased at one of the cottages to which he had gone alone to buy a few oat and cakes, hung over the face of his friend. That face no longer blaze with the fire of generous valor. It was pale and sad, but whenever he turned his eyes on Edwin, the shades which seemed to envelop it disappeared, a bright smile spoke the peaceful consciousness within. A look of grateful affection expressed his comfort at having found, in defiance of every danger, he was not yet wholly forsaken. Edwin's youthful happy spirit rejoiced at every glad beam which shone on the face of him he loved. It awoke felicity in his breast. To be occasionally near Wallace to share his confidence with others had always filled him with joy, but now to be the only one on whom his noble heart leaned for consolation was bliss unutterable. He trod on air and even shied his beating heart for a delight which seemed to exalt when his friends suffered. But not so, he ejaculated internally, to be with thee is the delight. In life and in death, thy presence is the sunshine of my soul. When they arrived within sight of the high towers of Bothwell Castle, Wallace stopped. We must not go thither, said Edwin, replying to the sediment which spoke from the eyes of his friend. The servants of my cousin Andrew may not be as faithful as their lord. I will not try them, return Wallace with a resigned smile. My presence in Bothwell Chapel shall not pluck danger on the head of my dauntless Murray. She wakes in heaven for me whose body sleeps there and knowing where to find the jewel, my friend. Shall I linger over the vacated casket? While he yet spoke, a chieftain on horseback suddenly emerged from the trees which led to the castle and drew to their side. Edwin was wrapped in his plaid and cautiously concealing his face that no chance of his recognition might betray his companion. He walked briskly on without once looking at the stranger. But Wallace, being without any shade over the noble contour of a form which for majesty and grace was unequaled in Scotland, could not be mistaken. He too moved swiftly forward. The horseman spurred after him, perceiving himself pursued and therefore known and aware that he must be overtaken, he suddenly stopped. Edwin drew his sword and would have given it into the hand of his friend, but Wallace, putting it back, rapidly answered, leave my defense to this unweapened arm. I would not use steel against my countrymen, but none shall take me while I have sinned you to resist. The chieftain now checked his horse in front of Wallace and respectfully raising his visor, discovered Sir John Monteith. At sight of him, Edwin dropped the point of his yet unlifted sword and Wallace, stepping back. Monteith, he said, I am sorry for this reencounter. If you would be safe from the destiny which pursues me, you must retire immediately and forget that we ever met. Never, cried Monteith. I know the ingratitude of an envious country drives the bravest of her champions from our borders, but I also know what belongs to myself. To serve you at all hazards, and by conjuring you to become my guest in my castle on the Firth of Clyde, I would demonstrate my grateful sense of the dangers you once incurred for me, and I therefore thank fortune for this reencounter. In vain, Wallace expressed his determination not to bring peril on any of his countrymen, by sojourning under any roof till he were far away from Scotland. In vain, he urged to Monteith the outlawry, which would await him should the infuriated abthanes discover that he had given shelter to the man whom they had chosen to suppose a traitor, and denounced as one. Monteith, after equally unsuccessful persuasion on his side, at last said that he knew a vessel was lying at Newark near his castle, in which Wallace might immediately embark, and he implored him by past friendship to allow him to be his guide to its anchorage. To enforce this supplication, he threw himself off his horse, and with protestations of a fidelity that trampled on all comfort he should ever know in his now degraded country. Once I saw Scotland's steady champion, the brave Douglas, rifle from her shores, do not then doom me to a second grief, bitterer than the first. Do not you yourself drive me from the side of her last hero. I'll let me behold you, champion of my school days, friend, leader, benefactor, till the sea rests you forever from my eyes. Exhausted and affected, Wallace gave his hand to Monteith. The tear of gratitude stood in his eye. He looked affectionately from Monteith to Edwin, from Edwin to Monteith. Wallace shall yet live in the memory of the trustee of this land. You, my friend, prove it. I go richly forth, for the hearts of good men are my companions. As they journeyed along the devious windings of the Clyde and saw at a distance the aspiring tourists of Rutherglen, Edwin pointed to them and said, from that church a few months ago, did you dedicate a conqueror's term to England? And now that very England makes me a fugitive, returned Wallace. Oh, not England, interrupted Edwin. You bow not to her. It is blind, mad Scotland, who thus thrust her benefactor from her. Ah, then, my Edwin, rejoined he. Read in me this history of thousands. So various is the fate of a people's idol. Today he is worshiped as a god. Tomorrow cast into the fire. Monteith turned pale at this conversation and quickening his steps, hurried in silence past the opening of the valley which presented the view of Rutherglen. Night overtook the travelers near the little village of Lumlock, about two hours journey from Glasgow. Here a storm coming on, Monteith advised his friends to take shelter and rest. As you object to implicate others, he said, you may sleep secure in an old barn, which at present has no ostensible owner. I remarked it while passing this way from Newark, but I rather wish you would forget this too charry regard for others and lodge with me in the neighboring cottage. Wallace was insensible to the pelting of the elements. His unsubdued spirit wanted rest for neither mind nor body. But the broken voice and lingering step of the young Edwin, who has severely sprained his foot in the dark, penetrated his heart and notwithstanding that the resolute boy, suddenly rallying himself, declared that he was neither weary nor in pain. Wallace, seeing he was both, yielded a sad consent to be conducted from the storm. But not, he said, to the house. We will go into the barn and there on the dry earth, my Edwin, we may gratefully repose. Monteith did not oppose him further and pushing open the door, Wallace and Edwin entered. Their conductor soon after followed with a light from the cottage and pulling down some heap straw, strewn it on the ground for a bed. Here I shall sleep like a prince, cried Edwin, throwing himself across the scattered truss. But not, returned Monteith, till I have disengaged you from your wet garments and preserved your arms and brigundine from the rest of this night. Edwin, sunk in weariness, said little in opposition, and having suffered Monteith to take away his sword and to unbrace his plated vest, dropped at once on the straw in a profound sleep. Wallace, that he might not disturb him by debate, yielded to the request of Monteith and having resigned his armor also, waved him a good night. Monteith nodded the same and closed the door upon his victims. Well known to the generals of King Edward as one who estimated his honor as a mere counter of traffic, Sir John Monteith was considered by them as a hireling fit for any purpose. Though de Wereen had been persuaded to use unworthy methods to intimidate his great opponent, he would have shrunk from being a co-agitor of treachery. His removal from the Lord Wardenship of Scotland, in consequence of the wounds he had received at Dalkeith, opened a path to the elevation of Imre de Valance. When he was named Viceroy in the stead of de Wereen, he told Edward that he would authorize him to offer an earldom with adequate estates to Sir John Monteith, the old friend of Wallace. He was sure so rapacious a chieftain would traverse sea and land to put that formidable scot in the hands of England. To incline Edward to pro-offer so large a bribe, de Valance instanced Monteiths having volunteered while he commanded with Sir Eustace Maxwell on the borders to betray the forces under him to the English general. The treachery was accepted and for his execution, he received a casket of uncounted gold. Some other proofs of his devotion to England were mentioned by de Valance. You mean his devotion to money, reply the king, and if that will make him ours at this crisis, give him overflowing coffers, but no earldom. Though I must have the head of Wallace, I would not have one of my peers show a title written in his blood. Ill deeds must sometimes be done, but we do not emblazon their perpetrators. De Valance having received his credentials sent Halliburton, a Scottish prisoner, who bought his liberty to dear by such an ambassador to impart to Sir John Monteith, the king of England's approval. Monteith was then Castellan of Newark where he had immured himself for many months under a pretense of the reopening of old wounds. But the fact was his treasons were connected with so many accomplices that he feared some disgraceful disclosure and therefore kept out of the way of exciting public attention. Averus was his master of passion and the sudden idea that there might be treasure in the iron box, which, unwitting of such a thought at the time, he had consigned to Wallace, first bound him assorted slave. His murmurs for having allowed the box to leave his possession gave the alarm which caused the disasters at Ellersley and his own immediate arrest. He was then sent to prisoner to Cresingham at Sterling, but in his way thither he made his escape, though only to fall into the hands of Salis. That inhuman chief threatened to return him to his dungeons and to avoid such a misfortune, Montieth engaged in the conspiracy to bring Lady Helen from the priory to the arms of this monster. On her escape, Salis would have wreaked his vengeance on his vile emissary, but Montieth, aware of his design, fled, and fled even into the danger he would have avoided. He fell in with a party of roaming Southerns who conveyed him to ire. Once having immolated his honor, he kept no terms with conscience. Our enough soon understood what manner of man was in his custody, and by sharing with him the pleasures of his table, soon drew from him every information respecting the strength and resources of his country. His after history was a series of secret treacheries to Scotland, and in return for them, an accumulation of wealth from England, the contemplation of which seemed to be his sole enjoyment. This new offer from Dave Allance was therefore greedily embraced. He happened to be at Rutherglen when Halliburton brought the proposal, and in the cloisters of its church was its fell agreement signed. Footnote, the events of Wallace having dictated terms of peace with England, and Montieth pledging himself to that country's emissary to betray Wallace, having taken place in this church, are traditionary facts. And footnote, he transmitted an oath to Dave Allance that he would die or win his ire, and immediately dispatching spies to the camp at Roslyn, as soon as he was informed of Wallace's disappearance, he judged from the knowledge of that chief's retentive affections that whither so ever he intended finally to go, he would first visit Ellersley and the tomb of his wife. According to this opinion, he planted his emissaries in favorable situations on the road, and then proceeded himself to intercept his victim at the most probable places. Not finding him at Bothwell, he was issuing forth to take the way to Ellersley when the object of his search presented himself at the opening of the wood. The evil plan too well succeeded. Triumphant in his deceit, this mastery of hypocrisy left the barn in which he had seen Wallace and his young friend lie down on that ground from which he had determined they should never more rise. Aware that the unconquerable soul of Wallace would never allow himself to be taken alive, he had stipulated with Dave Alance that the delivery of his head should entitle him to a full reward. From Rutherglen to Lumlock, no place had presented itself in which he thought he could so judiciously plant in ambuscade to surprise the unsuspecting Wallace. And in this village, he had stationed so large a force of ruthless savages, brought for the occasion by Halliburton from the Irish island of Rathlin that their employer had hardly a doubt of this night being the last of his two trusting friends' existence. These Rathliners neither knew of Wallace nor of his exploits, but the lower order of Scots. However, they might fear to sucker his distress, loved his person and felt so bound to him by his actions that Monteith durst not apply to any one of them to second his villainy. The hour of midnight passed and yet he could not some encourage to lead his men to their nefarious attack. Twice they urged him before he rose from his affected sleep. For sleep he could not. Guilt had murdered sleep and he lay awake, restless and longing for the dawn. And yet, ere that dawn, the deed must be accomplished. A cock crew from the neighboring farm. That is the sign of mourning and we have yet done nothing, exclaimed a surly Ruffian who leaned on his battle axe in an opposite corner of the apartment. No, it is the signal of our enemy's captivity, cried Monteith. Follow me, but gently. If he speak a word or a single target rattle, before ye all fall upon him, we are lost. It is a being of supernatural might, not a mere man, whom ye go to encounter. He that first disables him shall have a double reward. Depend upon us, returned the sturdiest Ruffian and stealing cautiously out of the cottage, the party advance with noiseless steps toward the barn. Monteith paused at the door, making a sign to his men to halt while he listened. He put his ear to a crevasse, not a murmur was within. He gently raised the latch and setting the door wide open, with his finger to his lip, beckon his followers. Without venturing to draw a breath, they approached the threshold. The meridian moon shone full into the hovel and shed a broad light upon their victims. The innocent face of Edwin rested on the bosom of his friend, and the arm of Wallace lay on the spreadstraw with which he had covered the tender body of his companion. So fair a picture of mortal friendship was never before beheld. But the hearts were blind which looked on it, and Monteith gave the signal. He retreated out of the door, while his men threw themselves forward to bind Wallace where he lay. But the first man, in his eagerness, striking his head against a joist in the roof, uttered a fierce oath. The noise roused Wallace, whose wakeful senses had rather slumber than slept, and opening his eyes, he sprang on his feet. A moment told him his enemies were around. Seeing him rise, they rushed on him with implications. His eyes blazed like two terrible meteors, and with a sudden motion of his arm, he seemed to hold the men at a distance, while his godlike figure stood, a tower in collected might. Aw struck, they paused, but it was only for an instant. The sight of Edwin, now starting from his sleep, his aghast countenance, while he felt for his weapons, his cry when he recollected they were gone, inspired the assassins with fresh courage. Battle axes, swords, and rattling chains now flash before the eyes of Wallace. The point is still in many places entered his body, while with a part of a broken bench, which chance to lie near him, he defended himself and Edwin from this merciless host. Edwin, seeing not but the death of his friend before his sight, regardless of himself, made a spring from his side, and snatched a dagger from the belt of one of the murderers. The Ruffian instantly caught the intrepid boy by the throat, and in that horrible clutch would have certainly deprived him of life, had not the lion grasp of Wallace sees the man in his arms, and with a pressure that made his mouth and nostrils burst with blood, compelled him to forgo his hold. Edwin released, Wallace dropped his assailant, who, staggering a few paces, fell senseless to the ground and instantly expired. But conflict now became doubly desperate, Edwin's dagger twice defended the breast of his friend, two of his assassins he stabbed to the heart. Murder that urchin, cried Monteith, who, seeing from without the carnage of his men, feared that Wallace might yet make his escape. Ha, cried Wallace, at the sound of Monteith's voice giving such an order, then we are betrayed, but not by heaven. Strike, one of you, that angel youth, he cried, and you will incur damnation. He spoke to the winds. They poured toward Edwin. Wallace, with a giant strength, dispersed them as they advanced. The beam of wood fell on the heads, the breasts of his assailants. Himself bleeding at every pore, he felt not as smart while yet he defended Edwin. But a shout was heard from the door, a faint cry was heard at his side. He looked around, Edwin lay extended on the ground, with an arrow quivering in his breast, his closing eyes still looking upward to his friend. The beam fell from the hands of Wallace. He threw himself on his knees beside him. The dying boy pressed his hand to his heart, and dropped his head upon his bosom. Wallace moved not, spoke not. His hand was bathed in the blood of his friend, but not a pulse beat beneath it. No breath warmed the paralyzed chill of his face, as it hung over the motionless lips of Edwin. The men were more terrified at this unresisting stillness than at the invincible prowess of his arm, and stood gazing on him in mute wonder. But Monteith, in whom the foul appetite of avarice had destroyed every perception of humanity, sent in other Ruffians with new orders to bind Wallace. They approached him with terror, two of the strongest dealing behind him, and taking advantage of his face being bent upon that of his murdered Edwin. Each in the same moment seized his hands. As they gripped them fast, the others advanced eagerly to fasten the bands. He looked up calmly, but it was a dreadful calm. It spoke of despair, of the full completion of all woe. Bring chains, cried one of the men. He will burst these throngs. You may bind me with a hair, he said. I contend no more. The bonds were fastened on his wrists, and then, turning toward the lifeless body of Edwin, he raised it gently in his arms. The rosy red of youth yet tinged his cold cheek. His parted lips were still beamed with the same. But the breath that had so sweetly informed them was flown. Oh, my best brother that ever I had, cried Wallace in a sudden transport, and kissing his pale forehead. My sincerest friend in my greatest need, in thee was truth, manhood, and nobleness. In thee was all man's fidelity with woman's tenderness. My friend, my brother. Oh, what a god I had died for thee. End of chapter 79. Chapter 80 of The Scottish Chiefs. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Scottish Chiefs by Miss Jane Porter. Chapter 80, Hunting Tower. Lord Ruthven was yet amusing in fearful anxiety on Wallace's solemn adieu and the confirmation which the recitals of Grimsby and Hay had brought of his determined exile when he was struck with a new consternation by the flight of his son. A billet which Edwin had left with Scrimger, who guessed not its contents, told his father that he was gone to seek their friend and to unite himself forever to his fortunes. Bothwell, not less eager to preserve Wallace to the world, with an intent to persuade him to at least abandon his monastic project, set off direct for France, hoping to arrive before his friend and engage the French monarch to assist in preventing so grievous a sacrifice. Ruthven, meanwhile fearful that the unarmed Wallace and the self-regardless Edwin might fall into the hands of the venal wretches and now widely dispersed to seize the chief and his adherents, sent out the veterans in diver's disguises to pursue the roads it was probable he might take and finding him guard him safely to the coast. Till Ruthven should receive accounts of their success he forebore to forward the letter which Wallace had left for Bruce or to increase the solicitude of the already anxious inhabitants of Hunting Tower with any intimation of what had happened. But on the fourth day Scrimger and his party returned with the horrible narrative of Lumlock. After the murder of his youthful friend, Wallace had been loaded with irons and conveyed so unresistingly that he seemed in a stupor on board a vessel to be carried without loss of time to the Tower of London. Sir John Monteith, though he never ventured into his sight, attended as the accuser who to put a visor on cruelty was to swear away his victim's life. The horror and grief of Ruthven at these tidings were unutterable and Scrimger to turn the tide of the bereaved father's thoughts to the inspiring recollection of the early glory of his son proceeded to narrate that he found the beauteous remains in the hovel but bedecked with flowers by the village girls. They were weeping over it and lamenting the pitiless heart which could slay such youth and loveliness. To bury him in so obscure a spot Scrimger would not allow and he had sent Stephen Ireland with the sacred corpse to Dumbarton with orders to see him entombed in the chapel of that fortress. It is done continued the worthy night and those towers he so bravely scaled will stand forever the monument of Edwin Ruthven. Scrimger said the stricken father, the shafts fall thick upon us but we must fulfil our duty. Cautious of inflicting too heavy a blow on the fortitude of his wife and of Helen he commanded Grimsby and Hay to withhold from everybody at Hunting Tower the tidings of its young lords fate but he believed at his duty not to delay the letter of Wallace to Bruce and the dreadful information to him of Monteith's treachery. Ruthven ended his short epistle to his wife by saying he should soon follow his messenger but that at present he could not bring himself to entirely abandon the lowlands to even a temporary empire of the seditious chiefs. On Grimsby's arrival at Hunting Tower he was conducted immediately to Bruce. Some cheering symptoms having appeared that morning he had just exchanged his bed for a couch when Grimsby entered the room. The countenance of the honest southern was the harbinger of his news. Lady Helen started from her seat and Bruce stretching out his arms eagerly caught the packets the soldier presented. Isabella inquired if all were well with Sir William Wallace but ere he could make an answer Lady Ruthven ran breathless into the room holding out the open letter brought by Hay to her. Bruce had just read the first line of his which announced the captivity of Wallace and with a groan that pierced through the souls of every one present he made an attempt to spring from the couch but in the act he reeled and fell back in a fearful but mute mental agony. The apprehensive heart of Helen guessed some direful explanation she looked with speechless inquiry upon her aunt and Grimsby. Isabella and Ursuldun hastened to Bruce and Lady Ruthven being too much appalled in her own feelings to think for a moment on the aghast Helen hurriedly read to her from Lord Ruthven's letter the brief but decisive account of Wallace's dangerous situation his seizure and conveyance to the Tower of England. Helen listened without a word. Her heart seemed locked within her. Her brain was on fire and gazing fixedly on the floor while she listened all else that was transacted around her and passed unnoticed. The pangs of a convulsion fit did not long shackle the determined Bruce. The energy of his spirit struggling to gain the side of Wallace in this his extreme need for he well knew Edward's implacable soul roused him from his worse than swoon. With his extended arms dashing away the restoratives with which both Isabella and Ursuldun hung over him he would have leaped on the floor had not the latter held him down. "'Withhold me not,' cried he, "'this is not the time for sickness and indulgence. My friend is in the fangs of the tyrant and shall I lie here? No, not for all the empires in the globe will I be detained another hour.' Isabella affrighted at the furies which raged in his eyes but yet more terrified at the peril's attendant on his desperate resolution threw herself at his feet and implored him to stay for her sake. "'No,' cried Bruce, "'not for thy life, Isabella, which is dearer to me than my own. Not to save this ungrateful country from the doom it merits would I linger one moment from the side of him who has fought, bled, and suffered for me and mine, who is now treated with ignominy and sentenced to die for my delinquency. Had I consented to proclaim myself on my landing, sure with Bruce the King Envy would have feared to strike, but I must first win a fame like his, and while I lay here they tore him from the vain and impotent Bruce. But Almighty Partner of my sins, cried he with vehemence, grant me strength to rest him from their grip, and I will go barefoot to Palestine to utter all my gratitude. Isabella sunk weeping into the arms of her aunt, and the venerable Ursuldun, wishing to curb an impetuosity which could only involve its generous agent in a ruin deeper than that it sought to revenge with more zeal than judgment, urged to the Prince the danger into which such boundless resentment would precipitate his own person. At this intimation the impassioned Bruce, stung to the soul that such an argument could be expected to have wait with him, solemnly bent his knees and clasping his sword vowed before heaven, either to release Wallace, or to share his fate he would have added, but Isabella, watchful of his words, suddenly interrupted him by throwing herself wildly on his neck and exclaiming, O say not so! rather swear to pluck the tyrant from his throne that the scepter of my Bruce may bless England, as it will yet do this unhappy land. She says righty ejaculated Ursuldun in a prophetic transport, and the scepter of Bruce in the hands of his offspring shall bless the United Countries to the latest generations. The walls of separation shall then be thrown down, and England and Scotland be one people. Bruce looked steadfastly on the sage, then if thy voice utter holy verity it will not again deny my call to wield the power that heaven bestows. I follow my fate. Tomorrow's dawn sees me in the path to snatch my best treasure, my counsellor, my guide, from the judgment of his enemies, or woe to England, woe to all Scotland-born who have breathed one hostile word against his sacred life. Helen dost thou hear me, cried he, wilt thou not assist me to persuade thy two timid sister that her Bruce's honour, his happiness, lives in the preservation of his friend? Speak to her, counsell her, sweet Helen, and please the almighty arm of heaven I will reward thy tenderness with the return of Wallace. Helen gazed intently on him while he spoke. She smiled when he ended, but she did not answer, and there was a wild vacancy in the smile that seemed to say she knew what had not been spoken, and that her thoughts were far away. Without further regarding him or any present she arose and left the room. At this moment of fearful abstraction her whole soul was bent with an intensity that touched on madness, on the execution of a project which had rushed into her mind in the moment she heard of Wallace's deathful captivity and destination. The approach of night favoured her design. Hurrying to her chamber she dismissed her maids with the prompt excuse that she was ill and desired not to be disturbed until morning. Then bolting the door she quickly habited herself as the dear memorial of her happy days in France, and dropping from her window into the pleasant's beneath, ran swiftly through its woody precincts toward Dundee. Before she arrived at the suburbs of Firth her tender feet became so blistered she found the necessity of stopping at the first cottage. But her perturbed spirits rendered it impossible for her to take rest, and she answered the hospitable offer of its humble owner with a request that he would go into the town and immediately purchase a horse to carry her that night to Dundee. She put her purse into the man's hand, who without further discussion obeyed. When the animal was brought and the honest scot returned her the purse with its remaining contents, she divided them with him, and turning from his thanks mounted the horse and rode away. About an hour before dawn she arrived within view of the ships lying in the harbour at Dundee. At this site she threw herself off the panting animal and leaving it to rest and liberty, hastened to the beach. A gentle breeze blew freshly from the north-west and several vessels were heaving their anchors to get under way. Are any demanded she bound for the Tower of London? None were the replies. Despair was now in her heart and gesture, but suddenly recollecting that in dressing herself for flight she had not taken off the jewels she usually wore, she exclaimed with renovated hope, will not gold tempt someone to carry me thither? A rough Norwegian sailor jumped from the side of the nearest vessel and readily answered in the affirmative. My life rejoined she, or a necklace of pearls shall be yours in the moment you land me at the Tower of London. The man, seeing the youth and agitation of the seeming boy, doubted his power to perform so magnificent a promise, and was half inclined to retract his assent. But Helen, pointing to a jewel on her finger as a proof that she did not speak of things beyond her read, he no longer hesitated. And pledging his word that wind and tide in his favour he would land her at the Tower's stairs, she, as if all happiness must meet her at that point, sprung into his vessel. The sails were unfurled, the voices of the men chanted forth with their cheering responses on clearing the harbor, and Helen, throwing herself along the floor of her little cabin in that prostration of body and soul, silently breathed her thanks to God for being indeed launched on the ocean, whose waves she trusted would soon convey her to Wallace, to soothe, to serve, to die, or to compass the release of him who had sacrificed more than his life for her father's preservation, for him who had saved herself from worse than death. CHAPTER XXXI. On the evening of the fourteenth day from the one in which Helen had embarked, the little ship of Dundee entered on the bright bosom of the Knorr. While she sat on the deck watching the progress of the vessel with an eager spirit, which would gladly have taken wings to have flown to the object of her voyage, she first saw the majestic waters of the Thames. But it was a tyrannous flood to her, and she marked not the diverging shores crowned with palaces, her eyes looked over every stately dome to seek the black summits of the Tower. At a certain point the captain of the vessel spoke through his trumpet to summon a pilot from the land. In a few minutes he was obeyed. The Englishman took the helm. Helen was reclined on a coil of ropes near him. He entered into conversation with the Norwegian, and she listened in speechless attention to a recital which bound up her every sense in that hearing. The captain had made some unprincipled jest on the present troubles of Scotland, now his adopted country from his commercial interests, and he added with a laugh that he thought any ruler the right one who gave him a free course in traffic. In answer to this remark, and with an observation not very flattering to the Norwegians' estimation of right and wrong, the Englishman mentioned the capture of the once renowned champion of Scotland. Even the enemy who recounted the particulars showed a truth in the recital which shamed the man who had benefited by the patriotism he affected to despise, and for which Sir William Wallace was now likely to shed his blood. I was present, continued the pilot, when the brave Scot was put on the raft which carried him through the traitor's gate into the tower. His hands and feet were bound with iron, but his head, owing to faintness from the wounds he had received at Lumluck, was so bent down on his breast as he reclined on the float that I could not then see his face. There was a great pause for none of us when he did appear in sight could shout over the downfall of so merciful a conqueror. Many were spectators of this scene whose lives he had spared on the fields of Scotland, and my brother was amongst them. However, that I might have a distinct view of the man who had so long held our war-like monarch in dread, I went to Westminster Hall on the day appointed for his trial. The great judges of the land, and almost all the lords besides were there, and a very great spectacle they made. But when the hall door was opened and the dauntless prisoner appeared, then it was that I saw true majesty. King Edward on his throne never looked with such a royal air. His very chains seemed given to be graced by him as he moved through the parting crowd with the step of one who has been used to have all his accusers at his feet. Though pale with loss of blood and his continence for traces of the suffering occasion by the state of his yet unhealed wounds, his head was now erect, and he looked with undisturbed dignity on all around. The Earl of Gloucester, whose life and liberty he had granted at Berwick, sat on the right of the Lord Chancellor. Bishop Beck, the Lord's devalence and sully, with one Montaith, who it seems was the man that betrayed him into our hands, charged him with high treason against the life of King Edward and the peace of his majesty's realms of England and Scotland. Grievous were the accusations brought against him and bitter the revilings with which he was denounced as a traitor too mischievous to deserve any show of mercy. The Earl of Gloucester at last rose indignantly and in energetic and respectful terms called on Sir William Wallace by the reverence in which he held the tribunal of future ages to answer for himself. On this adoration, brave Earl, replied he, I will speak. Oh, men of Scotland, what a voice was that. In it was all the honesty and nobleness, and a murmur arose from some who feared its power which Gloucester was obliged to check by exclaiming aloud with a stern voice, silence while Sir William Wallace answers, he who disobeys sergeant had arms take into custody. A pause succeeded and the chieftain with godlike majesty of truth denied the possibility of being a traitor where he had never owed allegiance, but with a matchless fearlessness he avowed the facts alleged against him, which told the havoc he had made of the English on the Scottish plains and the devastations he had afterwards wrought in the lands of England. It was a son, cried he, defending the orphans of his father from the steel and rapine of a treacherous friend. It was the sword of restitution gathering on that false friend's fields the harvest he had ravaged from theirs. He spoke more and nobly, too nobly for them who heard him. They rose to a man to silence what they could not confute, and the sentence of death was pronounced on him, the cruel death of a traitor. The Earl of Gloucester turned pale on his seat, but the countenance of Wallace was unmoved. As he was led forth, I followed, and saw the young, led a Spencer with several other reprobate gallants of our court ready to receive him. With shameful mockery they flew laurels on his head, and with torrents of derision told him it was meat they should so salute the champion of Scotland. Wallace glanced on them a look which spoke pity rather than contempt, and with a serene countenance he followed the warden toward the tower. The hirelings of his accusers loaded him with invectives as he passed along, but the populace who beheld his noble mean with those individuals who had heard of, while many had felt, his generous virtues, deplored and wept his sentence. Tomorrow at sunrise he dies. One's face being overshadowed by the low brim of her hat, the agony of her mind could not have been read on her countenance had the good southern been sufficiently uninterested in his story to regard the sympathy of others. But as soon as he had uttered the last dreadful words, tomorrow at sunrise he dies. She started from her seat. Her horror-struck senses apprehended nothing further, and turning to the Norwegian, Captain, she cried, I must reach the tower this night. Impossible was the reply. The tide will not take us up till tomorrow at noon. Then the wave shall, cried she, and frantically rushing toward the ship's side, she would have thrown herself into the water had not the pilot caught her arm. Boy, he said, are you mad? Your action, your looks. No, interrupted she, wringing her hands, but in the tower I must be this night, or— Oh, God of mercy, end my misery! The unutterable anguish of her voice, countenance and gesture excited a suspicion in the Englishman, that this youth was connected with the Scottish chief, and not choosing to hint his surmise to the unfeeling Norwegian. In a different tone he exhorted Helen to composure, and offered her his own boat, which was then towed at the side of the vessel, to take her to the tower. Helen grasped the pilot's rough hand, and in a paroxym of gratitude pressed it to her lips. Then forgetful of her engagements with the insensible man who stood unmoved by his side, sprung into the boat. The Norwegian followed her, and in a threatening tone demanded his hire. She now recollected it, and putting her hand into her vest, gave him the string of pearls which had bent her necklace. He was satisfied, and the boat pushed off. The cross, the cherished memorial of her hallowed meeting with Wallace in the chapel of Sundown, and which always hung suspended on her bosom, was now in her hand and pressed close to her heart. The rowers plied their oars, and her eyes, with a gaze as if they would pierce the horizon, looked intently onward, while the men labored through the tide. Even to see the walls which contained Wallace seemed to promise her a degree of comfort she dared hardly hope herself to enjoy. At last the awful battlements of England's state prison rose before her. She could not mistake them. That is the tower, said one of the rowers. A shriek escaped her, and instantly covering her face with her hands, she tried to shut from her sight those very walls she had so long sought amongst the clouds. They imprisoned Wallace. He groaned within their confines, and their presence paralyzed her heart. Shall I die before I reach thee, Wallace? was the question her almost-flipping soul uttered, as she, trembling yet with swift steps, ascended the stone stairs which led from the water's edge to the entrance to the tower. She flew through the different courts to the one which stood the prison of Wallace. One of the boatmen, being bargemen to the governor of the tower, as a privileged person, conducted her unmolested through every ward till she reached the place of her destination. There she dismissed him with a ring from her finger as her reward, and passing a body of soldiers who kept guard before a large porch that led to the dungeons, she entered and found herself in an immense paved room. A single sentinel stood at the end near to an iron grating, or small porch cullus. There, then, was Wallace. Forgetting her disguise and situation in the frantic eagerness of her pursuit, she hastily advanced to the man. Let me pass to Sir William Wallace, cried she, and treasures shall be your reward. Whose treasures, my pretty page, demanded the soldier. I dare not. Word at the suit of the Countess of Gloucester herself. Oh, Cried Helen, for the sake of a greater than any Countess in the land, take this jeweled bracelet and let me pass. The man, misapprehending the words of this adoration, at sight of the diamonds, supposing the page must come from the good Queen, no longer demurred. Putting the bracelet into his bosom he whispered Helen, that as he granted this permission at the risk of his life, she must conceal herself in the interior chamber of the prisoner's dungeon should any person from the ward envisage him during their interview. She readily promised this, and he informed her that, when through this door, she must cross two other apartments, the bolts to the entrances of which she must undraw, and then, at the extremity of a long passage, a door fastened by a latch, would admit her to Sir William Wallace. With these words, the soldier removed the massy bars, and Helen entered. End of Chapter 81