 CHAPTER 55 CHURCH OF FALKERK No eye closed that night in the monastery of Falkirk. The Earl of Marr awaked about the twelve-hour and sent to call Lord Ruthven, Sir William Wallace, and his nephews to attend him. As they approached, the priests, who had just anointed his dying head with the sacred unction, drew back. The Countess and Lady Ruthven supported his pillow. He smiled as he heard the advancing steps of those so dear to him. "'I send for you,' said he, to give you the blessing of a true Scott and a Christian. May all who are here in thy blessed presence, Redeemer of mankind,' cried he, looking up with a supernatural brightness in his eye. Die as I do, rather than survive to see Scotland enslaved. But, oh, may they rather live long under that liberty, perpetuated, which Wallace has again given to his country. Peaceful will then be their last moments on earth, and full of joy their entrance into heaven.' His eyes closed as the concluding word died upon his tongue. Lady Ruthven looked intently on him. She bent her face to his, but he breathed no more, and with a feeble cry she fell back in a swoon. The soul of the veteran Earl was indeed fled. The Countess was taken, shrieking, out of the apartment. But Wallace, Edwin, and Murray remained, kneeling over the body, and when they concluded, the priests throwing over it a cloud of incense, the mourners withdrew and separated to their chambers. By daybreak Wallace met Murray by appointment in the cloisters. The remains of his beloved father had been brought from Dunapakas to the convent, and Murray now prepared to take them to Bathwell Castle, there to be interred in the cemetery of his ancestors. Wallace, who had approved his design, entered with him into the solitary courtyard, where the war carriage stood which was to convey the deceased Earl to Clydesdale. Four soldiers of his clan brought the corpse of their lord from a cell, and laid him on his marshal-beer. His bed was the sweet heather of Falkirk, spread by the hands of his son. As Wallace laid the venerable chief's sword and helmet on his beard, he covered the hole with the flag he had torn from the standard of England in the last victory. None other shroud is worthy of thy virtues, cried he. Dying for Scotland, thus let the memory of her glory be the witness of thine. Oh, my friend, answered Murray, looking on his chief with a smile, which beamed the fairer shining through sorrow, thy gracious spirit can divest even death of its gloom. My father yet lives in his fame. And in a better existence, too, gently replied Wallace, else the earth's fame were an empty shroud it could not comfort. The solemn procession, with Murray at its head, departed toward the valleys of Clydesdale, and Wallace returned to his chamber. Two hours before noon he was summoned by the tolling of the chapel-bell. The Earl of Butte and his dearer friend were to be laid in their last bed. With a spirit that did not murmur, he saw the earth closed over both graves, but at Graham's he lingered, and when the funeral stone shut even the sod that covered him from his eyes, with his sword's point he drew on the surface these memorable words. Mente, manquipontance, et wille fetus acatis, condicis hicgramus, bello intrefectis ap anglis. These lines may be translated thus. Here lies the powerful in mind and body, the friend of Wallace, Graham, faithful unto death, slain in battle by the English. While he yet leaned on the stone, which gently gave way to the registering pen of friendship, to be more deeply engraved afterward, a monk approached him, attended by a shepherd-boy. At the sound of steps Wallace looked up. "'This young man,' said the father, brings dispatches to the Lord Regent.' Wallace rose, and the youth presented his packet. Withdrawing to a little distance he broke the seal and read to this effect. "'My father and myself are in the Castle of Durham, and both under an arrest. We are to remain so till our arrival in London renders it sovereign, in his own opinion, more secure. When there you shall hear from me again. Meanwhile, be on your guard. The gold of Edward has found its way into your councils. Beware of them who, with patriotism in their mouths, are purchased to betray you and their country into the hands of the enemy. Truest, noblest, best of Scots, farewell. I must not write more explicitly.' "'P.S. The messenger who takes this is a simple border shepherd. He knows not whence comes the packet. Hence he cannot bring an answer.' Wallace closed the letter, and putting gold into the shepherd's hand, left the chapel. In passing through the cloisters he met Ruthfyn, just returned from Sterling, whether he had gone to inform the chiefs of the Council of the Regent's arrival. "'When I summoned them to the Council Hall,' continued Lord Ruthfyn, and told them you had not only defeated Edward on the Karen, but in so doing had gained a double victory over a foreign usurper and domestic traitors, instead of the usual open-hearted congratulations on such a communication, a low whisper murmured through the hall, and the young Badanock, unworthy of his patriotic father, rising from his seat, gave utterance to so many invectives against you, our country's soul and arm, I should deem it treason even to repeat them. Suffice it to say that out of five hundred chiefs and chiefs who were present, not one of those parasites who used to fawn on you a week ago, and make the love of honest men seem doubtful, now breathes one word for Sir William Wallace. But this in gratitude, vile as it is, I bore with patience, till Badanock, growing in insolency, declared that late last night dispatches had arrived from the King of France to the Regent, and that he, in right of his birth, assuming to himself that dignity, had put their bearer, Sir Alexander Ramsey, under confinement, for having persisted to dispute his authority to withhold them from you. Wallace, who had listened in silence, drew a deep sigh as Ruthven concluded, and in that profound breath exclaimed, God must be our fortress still, must save Scotland from this gangrene in her heart. Ramsey shall be released, but I must first meet these violent men, and it must be alone, my Lord, continued he, you and our co-ajuders may await my return at the city gates, but the sword of Edward, if need be, shall defend me against his gold. As he spoke he laid his hand on the jeweled weapon which hung at his side, and which he had rested from that monarch in the last conflict. Aware that this treason aimed at him would strike his country, unless timely warded off, he took his resolution, and requesting Ruthven not to communicate to anyone what had passed, he mounted his horse, and struck into the road to Stirling. He took the plume from his crest, and closing his visor, enveloped himself in his plaid, that the people might not know him as he went along. But casting away his cloak, and unclasping his helmet at the door of the keep, he entered the council hall openly and abruptly. By an instantaneous impulse of respect, which even the base paid to virtue, almost every man arose at his appearance. He bowed to the assembly, and walked with a composed yet severe air up to his station at the head of the room. Young Badanot stood there, and as Wallace approached he fiercely grasped his sword. Proud upstart, cried he, betrayer of my father, set a foot further toward this chair, and the chastisement of every arm in this council shall fall on you for your presumption. It is not in the arms of thousands to put me for my right, replied Wallace, calmly putting forth his hand, and drawing the regent's chair toward him. Will you bear this? cried Badanot, stomping with his foot, and plucking forth his sword. Is the man to exist who thus braves the assembled lords of Scotland? While speaking, he made a desperate lunge at the regent's breast. Wallace caught the blade in his hand, and wrenching it from his intemperate adversary broke it into shivers, and cast the pieces at his feet. Then, turning resolutely toward the chiefs who stood appalled, and looking on each other, he said, I, your duly elected regent, left you only a few days ago, to repel the enemy whom the treason of Lord March would have introduced into these very walls. Many brave chiefs followed me to that field, and more, whom I see now, loaded me as I passed with benedictions. Portentious was the day of Fallkirk to Scotland. Then did the mighty fall, and the heads of council perish. But treason was the parasite. The late Lord Badanot stood his ground like a true scot, but Athol and Buchen deserted to Edward. While speaking, he turned toward the furious son of Badanot, who, gnashing his teeth in impotent rage, stood listening to the inflaming whispers of MacDougall of Lorne. Young chief, cried he, from their treachery date the fate of your brave father, and the whole of our grievous loss of that day. But the wide destruction has been avenged. More than chief for chief have perished in the southern ranks, and thousands of the lowlier sort now swell the banks of Caron. Edward himself fell, wounded by my arm, and was born by his flying squadrons over the wastes of Northumberland. Thus I have returned to you with my duties achieved in the manner worthy of your regent. What, then, means the arrest of my ambassador? What, this silence when the representative of your power is insulted to your face? They mean, cried Badanot, that my words are the utterance of their sentiments. They mean, cried Lorne, that the prowess of the haughty boaster, whom their intoxicated gratitude raised from the dust, shall not avail him against the indignation of a nation over which he dares to irrigate a right. Mean they what they will, returned Wallace, they cannot dispossess me of the rights with which assembled Scotland invest me on the plains of Stirling. And again I demand, by what authority do you and they presume to imprison my officer, and withhold from me the papers sent by the King of France to the regent of Scotland? By the authority that we maintain, replied Badanot, by the ride of my royal blood, and by the sort of every brave scot whose spurns at the name of Wallace. And as a proof that we speak not more than we act, cried Lorne, making a sign to the chiefs, you are our prisoner. Many weapons were instantly unsheathed, and their bearers, hurrying to the side of Badanot and Lorne, attempted to lay hands on Wallace. But he, drawing the sword of Edward, with a sweep of his valiant arm that made the glittering blade seem a brand of fire, set his back against the wall and exclaimed, He that first makes a stroke at me shall find his death on this southern steel. This sword I made the poison arm of the usurper yield to me, and this sword shall defend the region of Scotland against his ungrateful countrymen. The chieftains who pressed on him recoiled at these words, but their leaders, Badanot and Lorne, waved them forward, with vehement exhortations. Desist, young men, continued he, provoke me not by my bearing. With a single blast of my bugle I could surround this building with a band of warriors, who at sight of their chief being thus assaulted, would lay this tumult in blood. Let me pass or abide the consequence. Through my breast then, exclaimed Badanot, for with my consent you pass not here but on your beer. What is in the arm of a single man, cried he to the lords, that you cannot fall on him at once and cut him down? I would not hurt a son of the virtuous Badanot, returned Wallace, but his life beyond your hands, said he, turning to the chiefs, if one of you point a sword to impede my passage. And wilt thou dare it, usurper of my powers and honours, cried Badanot? Lorne, stand by your friend, all here who are true to the Cuman and the McDougal, hem in the tyrant. Only a traitor hand now drew forth its stagger, and the intemperate Badanock, drunk with collar and mad ambition, snatching a sword from one of his accomplices, made another violent plunge at Wallace, but its metal flu and splinters on the guard-stroke of the regent, and left Badanock at his mercy. Defend me, chieftains, or I am slain, cried he. But Wallace did not let his hand follow its advantage. With the dignity of conscious desert he turned from the vanquished, and casting the enraged Lorne from him, who had thrown himself in his way, he exclaimed, Scots, that arm will wither which dares to point its steel on me. The pressing crowd, struck in astonishment, parted before him, as they could have done in the path of a thunderbolt, and unimpeded he passed to the door. That their regent had entered the keep was soon rumored through the city, and when he appeared from the gate he was hailed by the acclamations of the people. He found his empire again in the hearts of the lowly, they whom he had restored to their cottages, knelt to him in the streets, and called for blessing on his name. While they, oh, blasting touch of envy, whom he had restored to castles, and elevated from a state of vassalage to the power of princes, they raised against him that very power to lay him in the dust. Now it was that when surrounded by the grateful citizens of Sterling, whom it would have been as easy for him to have inflamed to the massacre of Badanock and his council, as to have lifted his bugle to his lips, that he blew the summons for his captains. Every man in the keep flew to arms, expecting Wallace was returning upon them with the host he had threatened. In a few minutes the Lord Ruthfyn, with his brave followers, entered the inner ballium gate. Wallace smiled proudly as they drew near. "'My Lord,' said he, "'you come to witness the last act of my delegated power. Sir Alexander Scrimgeor, enter into that hall, which was once the seat of council, and tell the violent men who fill it, that for the peace of Scotland, which I value more than my life, I allow them to stand unpunished of their offence against me. But the outrage they have committed on the freedom of one of her bravest sons I will not pardon, unless he be immediately set at liberty. Let them deliver to you, Sir Alexander Ramsey, and then I permit them to hear my final decision. If they refuse obedience, they are all my prisoners, and, but for my pity on their blindness, should perish by the laws.'" Here to open the prison door for his friend Ramsey, and little suspecting to what he was calling the insurgents, Scrimgeor hastened to obey. Lorn and Badnot gave him a very rough reception, uttering such rebellious defiance of the Regent that the brave standard bearer lost all patience, and denounced the immediate deaths of the whole refractory assembly. "'The courtyard,' cried he, "'is armed with thousands of the Regent's followers. His foot is on your necks. Obey, or this will be a more grievous day for Scotland than even that of Falkirk, for the Castle of Stirling will run with Scottish blood.'" At this menace Badnot became more enraged, and Scrimgeor, seeing no chance of prevailing by argument, sent a messenger to privately tell Wallace the result. The Regent immediately placed himself at the head of twenty men, and re-entering the keep went directly to the water, whom he ordered on his allegiance to the laws to deliver Sir Alexander Ramsey into his hands. He was obeyed and returned with his recovered chieftain to the Platform. When Scrimgeor was apprised of the night's release, he returned to Badnot, with whom he was still contending in furious debate and demanded, "'Will you or will you not attend me to the Regent?' He, of you all,' added he, addressing the chieftains, who in this simple duty disobeys, shall receive from him the severer doom. Badnot and Lorn, affecting to deride this menace, replied, they would not for an empire do the usurper the homage of a moment's voluntary attention. But if any of their followers chose to view the mockery, they were at liberty. A very few, and those of the least turbulent spirits, went forth. They began to fear having embarked in a desperate cause, and by their present acquiescence were willing to deprecate the wrath of Wallace, while thus assured of not exciting the resentment of Badnot. When Wallace looked around him and saw the space before the keep filled with armed men and citizens, he ascended an elevated piece of ground, which rose a little to the left, and waving his hand in token that he intended to speak, a profound silence took the place of the buzz of admiration, gratitude, and discontent. He then addressed the people, "'Brother soldiers, friends, and—am I so to distinguish scots? Enemies!' At this word a loud cry of perish all who are the enemies of our glorious Regent penetrated to the inmost chambers of the citadel. Believing that the few of his partisans who had ventured out were falling under the vengeance of Wallace, Badnot, with a brandished weapon, followed by the rest, sallied toward the door, but there he stopped, for he saw his friends standing unmolested. Wallace proceeded, and with calm dignity announced the hatred that was now poured upon him by a large part of that nobility who had been so eager to invest him with the high office he then held. "'Though they have broken their oaths,' cried he, I have fulfilled mine. They vowed to me all lawful obedience. I swore to free Scotland or die. Every castle in this realm is restored to its ancient lord. Every fortress is filled with a native garrison. The sea is covered with our ships, and the kingdom, one in itself, sits secure behind her well-defended bulwarks. Such have I, through the strength of the Almighty Arm, made Scotland. Beloved by a grateful people, I could wield half her power to the destruction of the rest. But I would not pluck one stone out of the building I have raised. Today I deliver out my commission, since its design is accomplished. I resign the regency.' As he spoke he took off his helmet, and stood uncovered before the people. "'No, no,' seemed the voice from every lip. We will acknowledge no other power. We will obey no other leader.' Wallace expressed his sense of their attachment, but repeating to them that he had fulfilled the end of his office, by setting them free, he explained that his retiring it was no longer necessary. "'Should I remain your regent,' continued he, the country would be involved in ruinous dissensions. The majority of your nobles now find a vice in the virtue they once extoll, and seeing its power no longer needful, seek to destroy my upholders with myself. I therefore remove the cause of contention. I quit the regency, and I bequeath your liberty to the care of your chiefs. But should it be again in danger, remember, that while life breathes in this heart, the spirit of William Wallace will be with you still.' With these words he descended the mound, and mounted his horse amidst the cries and tears of the populace. They clung to his garments as he rode along, and the women, with their children, throwing themselves on their knees in his path, implored him not to leave them to the inroads of a ravager, not to abandon them to the tyranny of their own lords, who unrestrained by a king, or a regent like himself, would soon subvert his good laws, and reign despots over every district in the country. Wallace answered their entreaties with the language of encouragement, adding that he was not their prince, to lawfully maintain a disputed power over the legitimate chiefs of the land. But, he said, a rightful sovereignty may yet be yielded to your prayers, and to procure that blessing, daughters of Scotland, night and day invoke the giver of every good gift. When Wallace and his weeping train separated at the foot of Falkirk Hill, he was met by his veterans of Lanark, who, having heard of what had passed in the citadel, advanced to him with one voice, to declare that they would never fight under any other commander. "'Wherever you are, my faithful friends,' returned he, "'you shall still obey my word.' When he entered the monastery, the opposition that was made to his resignation of the regency, by the Bishop of Dunkeld, Lord Loccaw, and others, was so vehement, so persuasive, that had not Wallace been steadily principled not to involve his country in domestic war, he must have yielded to the affectionate eloquence of their pleading. But showing to them the public danger attendant on his provoking the wild ambition of the Cumans and their multitudinous adherents, his arguments, which the sober judgment of his friends saw conclusive, at last ended the debate. He then rose, saying, "'I have yet to perform my vow to our lamented mar. I shall seek his daughter, and then, my brave companions, you shall hear of me, and I trust, see me again.' CHAPTER 56 OF THE SCOTISH CHIEF'S 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 56 THE MONESTERY It being Lady Ruthven's wish that the remains of her brothers should be entombed with his ancestors, preparations were made for the mournful cavalcade to set forth toward Braemer Castle. The Countess, hoping that Wallace might be induced to accompany them, did not long object to this proposal, which Lady Ruthven had enforced with tears. Had anyone seen the toe, and been called upon to judge by their deportment, of the relationship in which each lady stood to the deceased, he must have decided that the sister was the widow. At the moment of her husband's death, Lady Mar had felt a shock. She had long looked for this event, as to the seal of her happiness. It was the sight of mortality that appalled her. The man she doted on, nay, even herself, must one day lie as the object now before her, dead, insensible to all earthly joys or pains, but awake perhaps, fearfully awake, to the judgments of another world. This conviction caused her shrieks when she saw Lord Mar expire. Every obstacle between her and Wallace she now believed removed. Her husband was dead, Helen was carried away by a man devotedly enamored of her, and most probably was at that time his wife. The specters of conscience passed from her eyes. She no longer thought of death and judgment, and under a pretense that her feelings could not bear the sight of her husband's beer, she determined to seclude herself in her own chamber, till the freshness of Wallace's grief for his friend should have passed away. But when she heard, from the indignant Edwin, of the rebellious conduct of the young Lord Badenock, and that the region had abdicated, her consternation superseded all caution. I will soon humble that proud boy, exclaimed she, and let him know that in opposing the elevation of Sir William Wallace, he treads down his own interest. You are beloved by the regent, Edwin, cried she, interrupting herself, and clasping his hand with earnestness. Teach his enthusiastic heart the true interest of his country. I am the first woman of the House of Cuman, and is not that family the most powerful in the kingdom? By the adherence of one branch to Edward the battle of Falkirk was lost. By the rebellion of another the region of Scotland is obliged to relinquish that dignity. It is in my power to move the whole race at my will, and if Wallace would mingle his blood with theirs, would espouse me, and overture which the love I bear my country impels me to make, every nerve would then be strained to promote the elevation of their nearest kinswoman. Wallace would reign in Scotland, and the whole land lie at peace. The family of Cuman was so powerful and numerous that an incredible number of chieftains of that name attended the first Parliament, which Robert the First held at Dunstaffnig Castle. The relationship between the heiress of Strathearn and that family was very near, her paternal grandmother having been the daughter of a Lord Badnock. Edwin eyed her with astonishment while she spoke. All her late conduct to his cousin Helen, to his uncle, and to Wallace was now explained, and he saw in her flushed cheek that it was not the patriot who desired this match but the enamored woman. You do not answer, said she. Have you any apprehension that Sir William Wallace would reject the hand which would give him a crown, which would dispense happiness to many thousand people? No, replied he. I believe that, much as he is devoted to the memory of her, whom alone he can ever love, could he purchase true happiness to Scotland by the sacrifice, he would espouse any virtuous woman who could bring him so blessed a dowry. But in your case, my honoured aunt, I can see no probability of such a consequence. In the first place, I know that now the virtuous Earl of Badnock is no more, he neither respects nor fears the Cumans, and he would scorn to purchase a crown or even the people's happiness by baseness in himself. To rise by their means, who you have seen will at any time emulate all that is sacred to man to their own caprice or fancied interests, would be unworthy of him. Therefore, I am sure, if you wish to marry Sir William Wallace, you must not urge the use he may make of the Cumans as an argument. He need not stoop to conjure the men he may command. Did he not drive the one half of their clan, with the English host to boot, to seek any shelter from his vengeance? And for them in the citadel, had he chosen to give the word, they would now be all numbered with the dust. Aunt, he has a divine master whose example he follows, though in deep humility. He lays down his power. It is not taken from him. Earthly crowns are draws to him who looks for a heavenly one. Therefore, honoured lady, believe it no longer necessary to wound your delicacy, by offering him a hand which cannot produce the good you meditate. The complexion of the countess varied a thousand times during this answer. Her reason assented to many parts of it, but the passions she could not acknowledge to her nephew urged her to persist. You may be right, Edwin, she replied, but still, as there is nothing very repugnant in me, the prospect is surely worth trying. At any rate, even setting the Cumans aside, marriage with the daughter of Strathern, by allying your noble friend to every illustrious house in the kingdom, would make his interest theirs, and all must unite in retaining to him the regency. Scotland would be wrecked should he leave the helm, and sweet Edwin, though your young heart is yet unacquainted with the strange inconsistencies of the tenderest passion, I must whisper to you that your friend will never be happy till he again live in the bosom of domestic affection. Ah! but where is he to find it? cried Edwin. What will ever restore his marion to his arms? Oh! cried she. I will be more than ever marion was to him. She knew not—oh! she could not! the boundless love that fills my heart for him. Edwin's blushes at this wild declaration told her how far she had betrayed herself. She attempted to palliate what she could no longer conceal, and covering her face with her hand exclaimed, You, who loves Sir William Wallace, cannot be surprised that all who adore human excellence should participate in that sentiment. How could I see him, the benefactor of my family, the blessing to all Scotland, and not love him? True, replied Edwin, but not as a wife would love her husband. You were married, and was it possible you could feel thus while my uncle lived? So strong a passion cannot have grown in your breast since he died, for surely love should not enter a widow's heart at the side of an unburied husband. Edwin, replied she, You, who never felt the throbs of this tyrant, judge with the severity you will one day regret. When you love and struggle with a passion that drinks your very life, you will pity Joanna of Mar and forgive her. I pity you now, Aunt, replied he, but you bewilder me. I cannot understand the possibility of a virtuous married woman suffering any passion of this kind to get such domination over her as to cause her one guilty sigh, for guilty must every wish be that milliates against the duty of her marriage vow. Surely love comes not in a whirlwind to seize the soul at once, but grows by degrees according to the development of the virtues of the object and the freedom we give ourselves in their contemplation. And if it be virtue that you love in Sir William Wallace, had you not virtue in your noble husband? The count has perceived by the remarks of Edwin that he was deeper red in the human heart than she had suspected, that he was neither ignorant of the feelings of the passion, nor of what ought to be at source, and therefore with a deep blush, she replied, Think for a moment before you condemn me. I acknowledge every good quality that your uncle possessed. But, oh, Edwin, he had frailties that you know not of, frailties that reduced me to be what the world never saw, the most unhappy of women. Edwin turned pale at this charge against his uncle, and while he forbore to draw aside the veil which covered the sacred dead, little did he think that the artful woman meant a frailty to which she had equally shared, and the consequences of which dangerous vanity had constrained her to become his wife. She proceeded, I married your uncle when I was a girl, and knew not that I had a heart. I saw Wallace, his virtue stole me from myself, and I found, in short, Edwin, your uncle became of too advanced an age to sympathize with my younger heart. How could I, then, defend myself against the more congenial soul of your friend? He was reserved during Mar's life, but he did not repulse me with unkindness. I therefore hope, and do you, my Edwin, gently influence him in my favor, and I will forever bless you. Aunt, answered he, looking at her attentively, can you without displeasure hear me speak, a few perhaps ungrateful truths? Say what you will, said she, trembling, only be my advocate with the noblest of human beings, and I can take not amiss. Lady Mar, resumed he, I answer you with unqualified sincerity because I love you, and venerate the memory of my uncle, whose frailties, whatever they might be, were visible to you alone. I answer you with sincerity because I would spare you much future pain, and Sir William Wallace attest which would pierce him to the soul. You confess that he already knows you love him, that he has received such demonstrations with coldness. Recollect what it is you love him for, and then judge if he could do otherwise. Could he approve affections which a wife transferred to him from her husband, and that husband, his friend? Ah, but he is now dead, interrupted she, that obstacle is removed. But the other which you raised yourself, replied Edwin, while a wife you showed to Sir William Wallace that you could not only indulge yourself and wish his hostile to your nuptial faith, but divulge them to him. Ah, my Aunt, what could you look for as the consequence of this? My uncle yet lived when you did this. And that act, where you is youthful as Hebe, and more tender than ever was fabled the Queen of Love, I am sure, the virtue of Wallace would never pardon. He could never pledge his faith to one whose passions had so far silenced her sense of duty. And did he even love you? He would not, for the empire of the world repose his honor in such keeping. Edwin, cried she, at last summoning her power to speak, for during the latter part of this address she had sat gasping from unutterable disappointment and rage. Are you not afraid to breathe all this to me? I have given you my confidence, and do you abuse it? Do you stab me when I ask you to heal? No, my dear Aunt, replied he, I speak the truth to you, ungrateful as it is, to prevent you hearing it in perhaps a more painful form from Wallace himself. Oh, no! cried she, with contemptuous haughtiness. He is a man, and he knows how to pardon the excesses of love. Look around you foolish boy, and see how many of our proudest lords have united their fates with women who not only loved them while their husbands lived, but left their homes and children to join their lovers. And what is there in me, a princess of the crowns of Scotland and of Norway, a woman who has the nobles of both kingdoms at her feet, and frowned upon them all, that I should now be condemned? Is the ingrate for whom I alone ever felt a wish of love, is he to despise me for my passion? You mistake, you know not the heart of man. Not of the common race of men, perhaps, replied he, but certainly that of Sir William Wallace. Purity and he are too sincerely one for personal vanity to blind his eyes to the deformity of the passion you describe. And mean as I am when compared with him, I must aver that, where a married woman to love me and seek to excuse her frailty, I should see alone her contempt of the principles which are the only impregnable bulwarks of innocence, and shrink from her as I would from pollution. Then you declare yourself my enemy, Edwin? No, replied he. I speak to you as a son. But if you are determined to avow to Sir William Wallace what you have revealed to me, I shall not even obscure on what has passed, but leave you, unhappy lady, to the pangs I would have spared you. He rose. Lady Marr wrung her hands in a paroxysm of conviction that what he said was true. Then, Edwin, I must despair. He looked at her with pity. Could you abhor the dereliction that your soul has thus made from duty, and leave him, whom your unwittled wishes now pursue, to seek you? Then I should say that you might be happy, for penitence appeases God, and shall it not find grace with man? Blessed Edwin, cried she, falling on his neck and kissing him, whisper but my penitence to Wallace, teach him to think I hate myself. O, make me that in his eyes which you would wish, and I will adore you on my knees. The door opened at this moment, and Lord Ruthven entered. The tears she was profusely shedding on the bosom of his son he attributed to some conversation she might be holding respecting her deceased lord, and taking her hand he told her he came to propose her immediate removal from the scene of so many horrors. My dear sister, said he, I will attend you as far as Perth. To that Edwin shall be your guard to Braemer, and my Janet will stay with you there till time has softened your griefs. Lady Marr looked at him. And where will be Sir William Wallace? Here, answered Ruthven, some considerations consequent to his receiving the friend's dispatches will hold him some time longer south of the Forth. Lady Marr shook her head doubtfully, and reminded him that the chiefs in the citadel had withheld the dispatches. Lord Ruthven then informed her that, unknown to Wallace, Lord Lockaw had summoned the most powerful of his friends then near Sterling, and attended by them, was carried on a litter into the citadel. It entered the council hall, and from that bed of honourable wounds he threatened the assembly with instant vengeance from his troops without, unless they would immediately swear fealty to Wallace, and compel Badanock to give up the French dispatches. Violent tumults were the consequence, but Lockaw's litter being guarded by a double rank of armed chieftains, and the keep being hemmed round by his men, prepared to put to the sword every scot hostile to the proposition of their lord, the insurgents at last complied, and forced Badanock to relinquish the royal packet. This affected, Lockaw and his train returned to the monastery. Wallace refused to resume the dignity he had resigned, the reinvestment of which had been extorted from the lords in the citadel. No, said he to Lockaw. It is indeed time that I should sink into shades where I cannot be found, since I have become a word of contention amongst my countrymen. He was not to be shaken, continued Ruthven, but seeing matter in the French dispatches that ought to be answered without delay, he yet remains a few days at Falkirk. Then we will await him here, cried the Countess. That cannot be, answered Ruthven. It would be against ecclesiastical law to detain the sacred dead so long from the grave. Wallace will doubtless visit Braemer. Therefore I advise that to-morrow you leave Falkirk. Edwin seconded this council, and fearing to make further opposition, she silently acquiesced. But her spirit was not so quescient. At night when she went to her cell, her ever-waitful fancy aroused a thousand images of alarm. She remembered the vow that Wallace had made to see Kellen. He had already given up the regency, an office which might have detained him from such a pursuit, and might not a passion softer than indignation against the ungrateful chieftains have dictated this act. Should he love Kellen, what is there not to fear? cried she. And should he meet her, I am undone. Racked by jealousy and goaded by contradicting expectations, she rose from her bed and paced the room in wild disorder. One moment she strained her mind to recollect every gracious local word from him, and then her imagination glowed with anticipated delight. Again she thought of his address to Kellen, of his vow in her favour, and she was driven to despair. All Edwin's kind admonitions were forgotten. Passion alone was awake, and forgetful of her rank and sex and of her situation, she determined to see Wallace, and appealed to his heart for the last time. She knew that he slept in an apartment at the other end of the monastery, and that she might pass thither unobserved. She glided into an opposite cell belonging to a sick monk, and stealing away his cloak threw it over her, and hurried along the cloisters. The chapel doors were open. In passing she saw the beer of her lord awaiting the hour of its removal, surrounded by priests, singing anthems for the repose of his soul. No tender recollections, no remorse, knocked at the heart of Lady Mar as she sped along. Abandoned all to thoughts of Wallace, she felt not that she had a soul. She acknowledged that she had a hope, but what centred in the smiles of man she was hastening to seek. His door was fastened with a latch. She gently opened it and found herself in his chamber. She trembled. She scarcely breathed. She looked around. She approached his bed. But he was not there. Disappointment palsied her heart, and she sunk upon a chair. Am I betrayed? she said to herself. Has that youthful hypocrite warned him hence? And then again she thought, but how should Edwin guess that I should venture here? Oh, no, my cruel stars alone are against me. She now determined to await his return, and nearly three hours she had passed there, enduring all the torments of guilt and misery, but he appeared not. At last, hearing the mutton bell, she started up, fearful that her maids might discover her absence. Compelled by some regard to reputation, with an unwilling mind she left the shrine of her idolatry, and once more crossed the cloisters. While again drawing toward the chapel, she saw Wallace himself as she from the door, supporting on his bosom the fainting head of Lady Ruthfin. Edwin followed them. Lady Mar pulled amongst cowl over her face and withdrew behind a pillar. Ah, thought she, absenting myself from my duty, I fled from thee. She listened with breathless attention to what might be said. Lord Ruthfin met them at that instant. This night's watching by the beer of her brother, said Wallace, has worn out your gentle lady. We strove to support her through these sad vigils, but at last she sunk. What Ruthfin said in reply, when he took his wife in his arms, the Countess could not hear. But Wallace answered, I have not seen her. I left her late in the evening, drowned in tears, replied Ruthfin, in a more elevated tone. I therefore suppose that in secret she offers those prayers for her deceased husband, which my tender jannet pours over his grave. Such tears, replied Wallace, are Heaven's own balm. I know they purify the heart once they flow. Yes, and the prayers we breathe for those we love, unite our souls the closer to theirs. Look up, dear Lady Ruthfin, said he, as she began to revive. Look up and hear how you may, while still on earth, retain the society of your beloved brother. Seek his spirit at the footstool of God. Tis thus I live, sister of my most venerated friend. My soul is ever on the wing of Heaven, wither in the solitary hour, in joy, or in sorrow, for there my treasure lives. Wallace, Wallace, cried Lady Ruthfin, looking on his animated Countess with wondering rapture, and art thou a man of earth and of the sword? O, rather say, an angel! Lent us here a little while to teach us to live and to die. A glowing blush passed over the pale but benign cheek of Wallace. I am a soldier of him who was indeed brought into the world to show us, by his life and death, how to be virtuous and happy. Know me by my life to be his follower, and David himself wore not a more glorious title. Lady Mar, while she contemplated the matchless form before her, exclaimed to herself, Why is it animated by his faultless assault? O, Wallace, worth thou less excellent, I might hope, but hell is in my heart and Heaven in thine. She tore her eyes from view which blasted while it charmed her, and rushed from the cloisters. CHAPTER 57 The sun rose as the funeral procession of the Earl of Mar moved from before the gates of the monastery at Falkirk. Lord Ruthfin and Edwin mounted their horses. The maids of the two ladies led them forth toward the litters which were to convey them so long a journey. Lady Ruthfin came first, and Wallace placed her tenderly in her carriage. The countess next appeared, clad in the deep weeds of widowhood. Her child followed in the arms of its nurse. At the side of the innocent babe, whom he had so often seen pressed to the fond bosom of the father it was now following to his grace, tears rushed into the eyes of Wallace. Lady Mar hid the tumult of her feelings on the shoulder of her maid. He advanced to her respectfully, and handing her to her vehicle urged her to cherish life for the sake of her child. She threw herself with increased agitation on her pillow, and Wallace, deeming the presence of her babe the surest comforter, laid it tenderly by her side. At that moment, before he had relinquished it, she bent her face upon his hands, and bathing them with tears faintly murmured, O, Wallace, spare me. Lord Ruthfin rode up to bid adieu to his friend, and the litters moved on. Wallace promised that both he and Edward should hear of him in the course of a few days, and affectionately grasping the hand of the latter, bad him farewell. Hear of him they should, but not see him, for it was his determination to set off that night for Durham, where he was informed Edward now lay, and joined by his young queen, meant to sojourn till his wounds were healed. Believing that his presence in Scotland could no longer be serviceable, and would engender continual and testing divisions, Wallace did not hesitate in fixing his course. His first object was now to fulfil his vow to Lord Marr. He thought it probable that Helen might have been carried to the English court, and that in seeking her he might also attempt an interview with young Bruce, hoping to learn how far he had succeeded in persuading his father to leave the vassalage of Edward, and once more, dare resuming the specter of his ancestors. To effect his plan without hindrance, on the disappearance of the funeral-cabalcade, Wallace retired to his apartment to address a letter to Lord Ruthfyn. In this epistle he told the chief that he was going on an expedition, which he hoped would prove beneficial to his country, but it was an enterprise of rashness. He would not make any one his companion. He therefore begged Lord Ruthfyn to teach his friends to consider with candor a flight they might otherwise deem unkind. All the brother was in his letter to Edwin, conjuring him to prove his affection for his friend by quietly abiding at home till they should meet again in Scotland. He wrote to Andrew Murray, now Lord Bothwell, addressing him as the first of his compatriots who had struck a blow for Scotland, and as his dear friend and brother soldier he confided to his care the valiant troop which had followed him from Lenarch. Tell them, said he, that in obeying you they still serve with me. They perform their duty to Scotland at home, I brought them abroad. Our aim is the same, and we shall meet again at the consummation of our labours. These letters he enclosed in one to Scrimgeor, with orders to dispatch two of them according to their directions, but that to Murray Scrimgeor was himself to deliver at the head of the Lenarch veterans. At the approach of Twilight Wallace quitted the monastery, leaving his packet with the porter to present to Scrimgeor when he should arrive at his usual hour. As the chief meant to assume a border minstrel's garb, that he might travel the country unrecognized as its once adored regent, he took his way toward a large hollow oak in Tor Wood, where he had deposited his means of disguise. When arrived there he disarmed himself of all with his sword, dirk, and breastplate. He covered his tartan gambeson with a minstrel's cassock, and staining his bright complexion with the juice of a nut, concealed his brighter locks beneath a close bonnet. Being thus equipped, he threw his harp over his shoulder, and having first, in that solitude, where no eye beheld, no ear heard but that of God, invoked a blessing on his enterprise, with a buoyant spirit rejoicing in the power in whose light he moved, he went forth, and under the sweet serenity of a summer night pursued his way along the broom-clad hills of Murrahman's side. All lay in profound rest. Not a human creature crossed his path till the carol of the lark summoned the husbandman to his toil, and spread the timey hills and daisied pastures with herds and flocks. As the lowing of cattle descended to the water, and the bleeding of sheep, hailing the morning beam, came on the breeze, mingled with the joyous voices of their herdsmen, calling to each other from afar, as all met the ear of Wallace, his conscious heart could not but whisper, I have been the happy instrument to effect this. I have restored every man to his paternal fields. I have filled all these honest breaths with gladness. He stopped at a little moss-covered cabin on the burn side, beneath Craig Castle in Midlothian, and was hospitably entertained by its simple inhabitants. Wallace repaid their kindness with a few ballads, which he sung accompanied by his harp. As he gave the last notes of King Arthur's death and glory, the worthy codder raised his head from the spade on which he leaned, and asked whether he could not sing the glory of Scotland. Our renowned Wallace said he is worth King Arthur and all the stranger knights of his round-table, for he not only conquers for us in war, but establishes us in happy peace. Who, like him, of all our great captains, ever took such care of the poor as to give them, not only the bread which sustains temporal, but that which supports eternal life? Sing us then his praises, minstrel, and tarry with us days instead of hours. The wife and the children who clung around their melodious visitant joined in this request. Wallace rose with a saddened smile and replied, I cannot do what you require, but I can yield you an opportunity to oblige Sir William Wallace. Will you take a letter from him, of which I am the bearer to Lord Dundoff at Barrick? I had been seeking what I have now found, a faithful scot, with whom I could confide this trust. It is to reveal to a father's heart the death of a son, for whom Scotland must mourn to her latest generations. The honest shepherd respectfully accepted this mission, and his wife, loading her guest's script with her choices, fruits, and cakes, accompanied him, followed by the children to the bottom of the hill. In this manner, sitting at the board of the lowly, and sleeping beneath the thatched roof, did Wallace pursue his way through Tweedale and Ettrick Forest, till he reached the cheviots. From every lip he heard his own praises, heard them with redoubled satisfaction, for he could have no suspicion of their sincerity, as they were uttered without expectation of their ever reaching the region's ear. It was the sabbath day when he mounted the cheviots. He stood on one of their summits, and, leaning on his harp, contemplated the fertile dales he left behind. The gay villagers in their best attires were thronging to their churches, while the aged, too infirm for the walk, were sitting in the sun at their cottage doors, adoring the almighty benefactor in his sublimer temple of the universe. All spoke of security and happiness. Thus I leave thee, beloved Scotland, and on revisiting these hills may I still behold thy sons and daughters rejoicing in the heaven-bestowed peace of their land. Having descended into Northumberland, his well-replenished script was his provider, and when it was exhausted he purchased food from the peasantry. He would not accept the hospitality of a country he had so lately trodden on as an enemy. Here he heard his name mentioned with terror as well as admiration. While many related circumstances of misery to which the ravaging of their lands had reduced them, all concurred in praising the moderation with which the Scottish leader treated his conquests. Late in the evening he arrived on the banks of the river that surrounds the Episcopal city of Durham. He crossed Framling Gate Bridge. His minstrel garb prevented his being stopped by the guard at the gate, but as he entered its porch a horse that was going through started at his abrupt appearance. Its rider suddenly exclaimed, "'Fool! Thou dost not cease, Sir William Wallace!' Then turning to the disguise night, Harper cried ye, You frighten my steed, draw back till I pass.' Not displeased to find the terror of him so great amongst the enemies of Scotland that they even addressed their animals as sharers in the dread, Wallace stood out of the way and saw the speaker to be a young southern knight, who with difficulty kept his seat on the rest of horse. Rearing and plunging it would have thrown its rider had not Wallace put forth his hand and seized the bridle. By his assistance the animal was soothed and the young Lord thanking him for his service told him that, as a reward, he would introduce him to play before the Queen, who that day held a feast at the Bishop's Palace. Wallace thought it probable he might see or hear of Lady Helen in this assembly, or find access to Bruce, and he gladly accepted the offer. The knight, who was Sir Piers Gaviston, ordering him to follow, turned his horse towards the city, and conducted Wallace through the gates of the Citadel to the palace within its walls. On entering the banqueting hall he was placed by the knight in the musician's gallery, there to await his summons to her majesty. This entertainment being spread, and the room full of guests, the Queen was led in by the haughty Bishop of the Sea, the King being too ill of his wounds to allow his joining so large a ceremony. The beauty of the lovely sister of Philip LaBelle seemed to fill the gaze and hearts of all bystanders, and none appeared to remember that Edward was absent. Wallace hardly glanced on her youthful charms. His eyes roamed from side to side in quest of a fairer, a dearer object, the captive daughter of his dead friend. She was not there, neither was devalance, but Buchen, Athol, and Solis were near the royal Margaret, in all the pomp of feudal grandeur. In vain waved the trophied banners over their heads. They sat sullen and revengeful. For the defeat on the Karen had obscured the treacherous victory of Falkirk, and instead of having presented Edward to his young Queen as the conqueror of Scotland, she had found him and them fugitives in the castle of Durham. Immediately on the royal band ceasing to play, Gaviston pressed toward the Queen, and told her he had presumed to introduce a travelling minstrel into the gallery, hoping that she would order him to perform for her amusement, as he could sing legends from the descent of the Romans to the victories of her royal Edward. With all her ages' eagerness and quest of novelties, she commanded him to be brought to her. Gaviston having presented him, Wallace bowed with the respect due to her sex and dignity, and to the esteem in which he held the character of her royal brother. Margaret desired him to place his heart before her, and began to sing. As he knelt on one knee and struck it sounding chords, she stopped him by the inquiry of whence he came. From the North Country was his reply. Were you ever in Scotland? asked she, many times. The young lords crowded round to hear this dialogue between majesty and lowliness. She smiled and turned toward them. Do not accuse me of disloyalty, but I have a curiosity to ask another question. Nothing your majesty wishes to know, said Bishop Beck, can be amiss. Then tell me, cried she, for you wandering minstrels see all great people, good or bad, else how could you make songs about them? Did you ever see Sir William Wallace in your travels? Often, madam. Pray, tell me what he is like. You probably will be un- prejudiced, and that is what I could hardly expect in this case from any of these brave lords. Wishing to avoid further questioning on this subject, Wallace replied, I have never seen him so distinctly as to be enabled to prove any right to your majesty's opinion of my punishment. Cannot you sing me some ballad about him? inquired she, laughing, and if you are a little poetical in your praise I can excuse you, for my royal brother thinks this bold scot would have shown brightly in a fairer cause. My songs are dedicated to glory said in the grave, returned Wallace. Therefore Sir William Wallace's faults or virtues will not be sung by me. Then he is a very young man, I suppose, for you are not old, and yet you speak of not surviving him. I was in hopes, cried she, addressing Beck, that my lord the king would have brought this Wallace to have sucked with me here, but for once rebellion overcame its master. Beck made some reply which Wallace did not hear, and the queen again, turning to him, resumed, Minstrel, we French ladies are very fond of a good mean, and I shall be a little reconciled to your northern realms if you tell me that Sir William Wallace is anything like as handsome as some of the gay knights by whom you see me surrounded. Wallace smiled and replied. The comeliness of Sir William Wallace lies in the strong arm and a feeling of heart, and if these be charms in the eyes of female goodness he may hope to be not quite an object of adorance to the sister of Philip Labelle. The Minstrel bowed as he spoke, and the young queen, laughing again, said, I wish not to come within the influence of either, but sing me some Scottish legend, and I will promise wherever I see the knight to treat him with all courtesy due to Valor. Wallace again struck the chords of his harp, and with a voice whose full and melodious tones rolled round the vast dome of the hall, he sung the triumphs of Beuther. The queen fixed her eyes upon him, and when he ended she turned and whispered to Gavison. If the voice of this man had been Wallace's trumpet, I should not now wonder at the disconfiture of England. He almost tempted me for my allegiance, as the warlike animation of his notes seemed to charge the flying Southerns. Speaking she rose, and presenting a jeweled ring to the minstrel, left the apartment. The lords crowded out after her, and the musicians, coming down from the gallery, seated themselves with much rude jollity to regale on the remnants of the feast. Wallace, who had discovered the Senecae of Brew by the escutcheon of Anondale suspended at his neck, gladly saw him approach. He came to invite the stranger minstrel to partake of their fair. Wallace did not appear to decline it, and as the court-bards seemed rather devoted to the pleasures of wine, he found it not difficult to draw from him what he wanted to know. He learned that young Bruce was still in the castle under arrest, and, added the Senecae, I shall feel no little mortification in being obliged, in the course of half an hour, to relinquish these festivities for the gloomy duties of his apartment. This was precisely the point to which Wallace had wished to lead him, and pleading disrelish of wine he offered to supply his place in the Earl's Chamber. The half-intoxicated bard accepted the proposition with eagerness, and as the shades of night had long closed in, he conducted his illustrious substitute to the large round tower of the castle, informing him as they went along that he must continue playing in a recess adjoining Bruce's room till the last vest-rebell from the abbey in the neighborhood should give the signal for his allaying aside the harp. At that time the Earl would be fallen asleep, and he might lie down on a pallet he would find in the recess. All this Wallace promised punctually to obey, and being conducted by the Senecae up a spiral staircase, he was left in a little ante-room. The chief drew the call of his minstrel cloak over his face and set his heart before him in order to play. He could see through its strings that a group of knights were an earnest conversation at the farther end of the apartment, but they spoke so low he could not distinguish what was said. One of the party turned round, and the light of a suspended lamp discovered him to be the brave Earl Gloucester whom Wallace had taken and released at Barrick. The same ray showed another to be Percy, Earl of Northumberland. Wallace found the strangeness of his situation. He, the conqueror of Edward, to have been singing as a mendicant in his halls, and having given laws to the two great men before him, he now sat in their view unobserved and unfeared. Their figures concealed that of Bruce, but at last when all rose together he heard Gloucester say, in rather an elevated voice, Keep up your plans. This envy of your base countrymen must recoil upon themselves. It cannot be long before King Edward discovers the motives of their accusations, and his noble nature will acquit you accordingly. My acquittal, replied Bruce in a firm tone, cannot restore what Edward's injustice has rifled from me. I abide by the test of my own actions, and by it will open the door of my freedom. Your king may depend on it, added he with a sarcastic smile, that I am not a man to be influenced against the right. For I owe duty I will pay it to the uttermost farthing. Not apprehending the true meaning of this speech, Percy immediately answered, I believe you, and so must all the world, for did you not give brave proofs of it that fearful night on the Karen in bearing arms against the triumphant Wallace? I did indeed give proofs of it, returned Bruce, which I hope the world will one day know, by bearing arms against the usurper of my country's rights, and in defiance of injustice and of treason, before men and angels I swear, cried he, to perform my duty to the end, to retrieve, to honour the insulted, the degraded name of Bruce. The two earls fell back before the vehement action which accompanied this burst from the soul of Bruce, and Wallace caught a glimpse of his youthful form, which stood preeminent in patriotic virtue between the southern lords. His fine countenance glowed, and his brave spirit seemed to emanate in light from every part of his body. My prince and brother exclaimed Wallace to himself, ready to rush forward and throw himself at his feet, or into his arms. Gloucester, as little as Northumberland, comprehending Bruce's ambiguous declaration, replied, Let not your heart, my brave friend, burn too hotly against the king for this arrest. He will be the more urgent to obliterate by kindness this injustice when he understands the aims of the Cumans. I have myself felt his misplaced wrath, and who now is more favoured by Edward than Ralph de Morthimer? My case will be yours. Good night, may propitious dreams repeat the augury of your true friends. Percy shook hands with the young Earl, and the two English lords left the room. Wallace could now take a more leisurely survey of Bruce. He no longer wore gay embroidered hackaton, his tunic was black velvet, and all the rest of his garments accorded with the same morning hue. Soon after the lords had quitted him, the buoyant elasticity of his figure, which before seemed ready to rise from the earth, so was it so elevated by his sublime resolves, gave way to melancholy retrospections, and he threw himself into a chair with his hands clasped upon his knee, and his eyes fixed in musing gaze upon the floor. It was now that Wallace touched the strings of his heart. The death of Cthulhuyn wailed from the sounding notes, but Bruce heard as though he heard them not. They soothed his mood without his perceiving what it was that calmed, yet deepened the saddening thoughts which possessed him. His posture remained the same, and sigh after sigh gave the only response to the strains of the bard. Wallace grew impatient for the chimes of that best rebel witch, by assuring Bruce's attendance that he was going to rest, would secure from interruption the conference he meditated. Two servants entered. Bruce, scarcely looking up, bad them withdraw. He should not need their attendance. He did not know when he should go to bed, and he desired to be no further disturbed. The men obeyed, and Wallace, changing the melancholy strain of his harp, struck the cords to the proud triumph he had played in the hall. Not one note of either ballad had he yet sung to Bruce, but when he came to the passage in the latter appropriated to these lines, arise, glory of Albin, from thy cloud, and shine upon thine own. He could not forbear giving the words voice. Bruce started from his seat. He looked toward the minstrel. He walked the room in great disorder. The peeling sounds of the harp and his own mental confusion prevented his distinguishing that it was not the voice of his Sennachery. The words alone he heard, and they seemed a call which his heart panted to obey. The hand of Wallace paused upon the instrument. He looked around to see that observation was indeed at a distance. Not that he dreaded harm to himself, for his magnanimous mind, courageous from infancy, by a natural instinct had never known personal fear. But anxious not to precipitate Bruce into useless danger, he first satisfied himself that all was safe. And then, as the young Earl sat in a paroxysm of racking reflections, for they brought self-blame, or rather a blame on his father, which pierced him to the heart, Wallace slowly advanced from the recess. The agitated Bruce, accidentally raising his head, beheld a man in a minstrel's garb, much too tall to be his Sennachery, approaching him with a caution which he thought pretended treachery. He sprung to his feet, and caught his sword from the table. But in that moment Wallace threw off his cowl. Bruce stood gazing on him, stiffened with astonishment. Wallace, in a low voice, exclaimed, My Prince, do not know me. Bruce, without speaking, threw his arms about his neck. He was silent as he hung on him, but his tears flowed. He had much to say, but excess of emotion rendered it unutterable. As Wallace returned the fond embrace of friendship, he gently said, How is it that I not only see you a close prisoner, in these weeds? Bruce at last forced himself to articulate. I have known misery in all its forms since we parted, but I have not power to name even my grief of griefs, while trembling at the peril to which you have exposed yourself by seeking me. The vanquisher of Edward, the man who snatched Scotland from his grasp, were he known to be within these walls, would be a prize for which the boiling revenge of the tyrant would give half his kingdom. Think, then, my friend, how I shudder at the staring. I am surrounded by spies, and should you be discovered, Robert Bruce will then have the curses of his country added to the judgments which have already fallen on his head. As he spoke they sat down together and he continued, Before I answer your questions tell me what immediate cause should bring you to seek the alien Bruce in prison, and by what stratagem you came in this disguise into my apartment. Tell me the last that I may judge by the means of your present safety. Ellis briefly related the events which had sent him from Scotland, his re-encounter with Pierce Gaviston, and his arrangement with the Senecae. To the first part of the narrative, Bruce listened with indignation. I knew, exclaimed he, from the boastings of Athel and Buchen, that they had left in Scotland some dregs of their own refractory spirits, but I could not have guessed that Envy had so obliterated gratitude in the hearts of my countrymen. The wolves have now driven the shepherd from the fold, cried he, and the flock will soon be devoured. Fatal was the hour for Scotland, and your friend, when you yielded to the voice of faction, and relinquished the power which would have finally given peace to the nation. Wallace recapitulated his reasons for having refrained from forcing the obedience of the young Lord Badnoch and his adherents, for abdicating a dignity he could no longer maintain without shedding the blood of the misguided men who opposed him. Bruce acknowledged the wisdom of this conduct, but could not restrain his animate versions on the characters of the Cumans. He told Wallace that he had met the two sons of the late Lord Badnoch in Yen, that James, who now pretended such resentment of his father's death, had ever been a rebellious son. John, who yet remained in France, appeared of a less violent temper. But, added the Prince, I have been taught by one who will never counsel me more, that all the Cumans, male and female, would be ready at any time to sacrifice earth and heaven to their ambition. It is to Buchen and Athel that I owe my prolonged confinement, and to them I may date the premature death of my father. The start of Wallace declared his shock at this information. How, exclaimed he, the Earl of Carrick dead? Fell, fell assassins of their country. The swelling emotions of his soul would not allow him to proceed, and Bruce resumed, it is for him that I wear these sable garments, poor emblems of the mornings of my soul, mornings, not so much for his loss, and that is grievous as ever son boar, but because he lived not to let the world know what he really was. He lived not to bring into light his long obscured honour. There, there, Wallace, is the bitterness of this cup to me. But can you not sweeten it, dear Prince, cried Wallace, by retrieving all that he was cut off from redeeming? To open the way to you I come. And I will enter where you point, returned Bruce, but heavy is my woe that, knowing the same spirit was in my father's bosom, he should be torn from the opportunity to make it manifest. Oh, Wallace, that he should be made to lie down in a dishonoured grave! Had he lived, my friend, he would have brightened that name which rumour has sullied, and I should have doubly gloried in wearing the name which he had rendered so worthy of being coupled with the kingly title. Noble was he in soul, but he fell amidst erasive men whose art was equal to their venility, and he became their dup. Betrayed by friendship, he sunk into the snare, for he had no dishonour in his own breast to warn him of what might be the villainy of others. He believed the cajoling speeches of Edward, who on the first defensive valley all had promised to place my father on the throne. Month after month passed away, and the engagement was unperformed. The disturbance on the continent seemed to his confiding nature a sufficient excuse for these various delays, and he waited in quiet expectation till your name, my friend, rose glorious in Scotland. My father and myself were then in Guyenne. Edward persuaded him that you affected the crown, and he returned with that deceiver to draw his sword against his people, and their ambitious idol, for so he believed you to be, and Grievous has been the expiation of that fatal hour. Your conference with him on the banks of the Caron opened his eyes. He saw what his credulity had made Scotland suffer, what a wreck he had made of his own fame, and from that moment he resolved to follow another course. But the habit of trusting the affection of Edward inclined him rather to remonstrate on his rights, then immediately to take up arms against him. Yet resolved not to strike a second blow on his people when you assailed the southern camp he withdrew his few remaining followers, who had survived the hard-fought day of Falkirk into a remote defile. On quitting you I came up with him in Minlothian, and having never missed me from the camp he concluded that I had appeared thus late from having kept in the rear of the division. Bruce now proceeded to narrate to Wallace the particulars of his father's meeting with the king at Durham. Instead of that monarch receiving the Earl of Carrick with his wanted familiar welcome, he turned coldly from him when he approached, and suffered him to take his usual seat at the royal table without dating him the slightest notice. Young Bruce was absent from the banquet, having determined never to mingle again in social communion with the man whom he now regarded as the usurper of his father's rights. The absence of the filial eye which had once looked the insolent buccane into his inherent insignificance now emboldened the audacity of this enemy of the House of Carrick, and supported by Athol on the one side and Sulus on the other, the base full of tuaries seized a pause in the conversation that he might draw the attention of all present to the disgrace of the chief, and said, with affected carelessness, My Lord of Carrick, today you dine with clean hands. The last time I saw you at meet they were garnished with your own blood. The Earl turned on him with a look which asked him to explain. Your buccane laughed, and continued, When we last met at table, was it not in his majesty's tent after the victory at Falkirk? You were then read from the slaughter of those bastardized people, to whom I understand you now give the fond appellation of sons. Having recognized the relationship, it was not probable we should again see your hands in their former brave livery, and their present pallid hue convinces more than myself of the truth of our information. And me, cried Edward, rising on the couch to which his wounds confined him, that I have discovered a traitor. You fled, Lord Carrick, at the first attack which the Scots made on my camp, and you drew thousands after you. I know you too well to believe that coward has impelled the motion. It was treachery, a cursed treachery to your friend and king, and you shall feel the weight of his presentment. To this hour, King Edward replied the Earl, starting from his chair, I have been more faithful to you than to my country or my God. I heard, saw, and believed only what you determined, and I became your slave, your vile, oppressed slave, the victim of your artifice. How often have you pledged yourself that you fought in Scotland only for my advantage. I gave my faith and my power to you, and how often have you promised, after the next successful battle, to restore me to the crown of my ancestors. I still believed you, and I still engaged all who yet acknowledged the influence of Bruce to support your name in Scotland. Was not such the reiterated promise with which you allured me to the field of Falkirk? And when I covered myself, as Lord Buchan too truly says, with the blood of my children, when I asked my friend for the crown I had served for, what was his answer? Have I not to do but to win kingdoms to make gifts of? Thus, then, did a king, a friend, break his oft-repreated word. What wonder, then, that I should feel the indignation of a prince and a friend, and leave the false, alas, the perjured, to defenders whom he seemed more highly to approve. But of treachery, what have I shown? Rather confidence, King Edward, and the confidence that was awakened in the fields of Palestine brought me hither to-day, to remonstrate with you on my rights. When by throwing myself into the arms of my people, I might have demanded them at the head of a victorious army. Edward, who had prepared by the Cumans to discredit all that Carrick might say in his defense, turned with a look of contempt toward him and said, You have persuaded to act like a madman, and as maniacs both yourself and your son shall be guarded till I have leisure to consider any rational evidence, you may in future offer in your vindication. And is this the manner, King Edward, that you treat your friend, once your preserver? The vassal, replied Edward, who presumes upon the condescension of his prince, and acts as if he were really his equal, ought to meet the punishment due to such arrogance. You saved my life on the walls of Acre, but you owed that duty to the son of your legelord. In the fervor of youth I inconsiderately rewarded you with my friendship, and the return is treason. As he concluded, he turned from Lord Carrick, and the marshals immediately seizing the earl took him to the keep of the castle. These speeches are historically true, as is also Edward's after-treatment of the Earl of Carrick. His son, who had been sought in the Carrick quarters and laid under an arrest, met his father in the guard chamber. Carrick could not speak, but motioning to be conducted to the place appointed for his prison, the men with equal silence led him through a range of apartments which occupied the middle story, and stopping in the furthest, left him there with his son. Bruce was not surprised at his own arrest, but at that of his father he stood in speechless astonishment until the guards withdrew. Then, seeing Lord Carrick with a changing countenance, throw himself on the bed, for it was in his sleeping-room they had left him, he exclaimed, What is the meaning of this, my father? Has any charge against me brought suspicion on you? No, Robert, no, replied the Earl. It is I who have brought you into this prison, and into disgrace, disgrace with all the world for having tacitly surrendered my inheritance to the invader of my country. Honest men of poor, villains treat me with contumely, and he for whom I incurred all this, because I would not, when my eyes were open to my sin, again imbrew my hands in the blood of my country, he now thrust from me. You are implicated in my crime, and for not joining the Southerns to repel the Scots from the royal camp, we are both prisoners. Then replied Bruce, He shall feel that you have a son who has virtue to be what he suspects, and from this hour I proclaim eternal enmity to the betrayer of my father, to the ingrate who embraced you to destroy. The indignation of the youthful prince wrought him to so vehement a declaration of resolute and immediate hostility that Lord Carrick was obliged to give his transports way. But when he saw that his denunciations were exhausted, though not the determined purpose of his soul, for he trod the room with a step which seemed to shake its foundations with the power of his mighty mind, Carrick gazed on him with pride, yet grief, and sighing heavily called him to approach him. Come to me, my Robert, he said, Here and abide by the last injunctions of your father, for from this bed I may never rise more. A too late sense of the injuries my sanction has doubled on the people I was born to protect, and the ingratitude of him for whom I have offended my God and wronged my country have broken my heart. I shall die, Robert, but you will avenge me. May God so prosper me, cried Bruce, raising his arms to heaven. Carrick resumed, Attend to me, my dear and brave son, and do not mistake the nature of my last wish. Do not allow the perhaps too forcible word I have used to hurry you into any personal revenge on Edward. Let him live to feel and to regret the outrages he has committed on the peace and honour of his too faithful friend. Pierce him on the side of his ambition. There he is vulnerable, and there you will heal while you wound. This would be my revenge, dear Robert, that you should one day have his life in your power, and in memory of what I now say, spare it. When I am gone, think not of private resentment. Let your aim be the recovery of the kingdom which Edward rifled from your fathers. Join the virtuous and triumphant Wallace. Tell him of my remorse, of my fate, and be guided wholly by his councils. To ensure the success of this enterprise, my son, a success to which I look is the only means of redeeming the name I have lost, and of inspiring my separated spirit with courage to meet the free-born souls of my ancestors. Urge not your own destruction by any premature disclosure of your resolutions. For my sake and for your countries, suppress your resentment. Threaten not the King of England. Provoke not the unworthy Scottish lords who have gained his ear. But bury all in your own bosom till you can join Wallace. Then by his arm and your own, seat yourself firmly on the throne of your fathers. That moment will sufficiently avenge me on Edward. And in that moment, Robert, or at least as soon as circumstances can allow, let the English ground which will then hold my body give up its dead. Move me to a Scottish grave, and standing over my ashes, proclaim to them who might have been my people, that for every evil I suffered to fall on Scotland, I have since felt answering pangs, and that dying I beg their forgiveness, and bequeath them my best blessing, my virtuous son, to reign in my stead. These injunctions, to assert his own honour in that of his father, were readily sworn to by Bruce. But he could not so easily be made to quell the imperious indignation which was precipitating him to an immediate and loud revenge. The dying Earl trembled before the overwhelming passion of his son's wrath and grief. Treated with outrage and contumely, he saw his father stricken to the earth before him, and he could not bear any temporizing with his murderers. But all this tempest of the soul, the wisdom-inspired arguments of the Earl at last becalmed, but could not subdue. He convinced his son's reason by showing him that caution would ensure the blow, that his aim could only be effected by remaining silent till he could publish his father's honour, evinced by his own heroism. Do this, added Kerrick, and I shall live fair in the memories of men. But be violent, threaten Edward from these walls, menest the wretches who have trodden on the grey hairs of their prints, and your voice will be heard no more. This ground will drink your blood, and blindly judging infamy will forever point to our obscure graves. Such persuasives at last prevailed with Bruce, and next day, writing the hasty lines which Wallace received at Falkirk, he entrusted them to his Senecae, who conveyed them to Scotland by means of the shepherd youth. Shortly after the dispatch of this letter, the presage of Lord Kerrick was verified. He was seized in the night with spasms, and died in the arms of his son. When Bruce related these particulars, his grief and indignation became so violent that Wallace was obliged to enforce the dying injunctions of the father he thus vehemently deplored, to moderate the delirium of his soul. Ah! exclaimed the young girl, I have indeed needed some friend to save me from myself, someone to reconcile me to Robert Bruce, who had so long slept in the fatal delusions which poisoned his father and laid him low. Oh, Wallace, at times I am mad. I know not whether this forbearance be not cowardice. I doubt whether my father meant what he spoke, that he did not yet seek to preserve the life of his son at the expense of his honour. And I had been ready to precipitate myself on the steel of Edward so that he should meet the point of mine. Bruce then added that in his more rational meditations he had resolved to attempt an escape in the course of a few days. He understood that a deputation of English barons, seeking a ratification of their charter, were soon to arrive in Durham. The bustle attended on their business would, he hoped, draw attention from him and afford him the opportunity he sought. In that case, continued he, I should have made directly to Sterling, had not Providence conducted you to me. I might have unconsciously thrown myself into the midst of enemies. James Cooman is too ambitious to have allowed my life to pass unattended. Whilst he was yet speaking, the door of the chamber burst open, and Bruce's two attendants rushed into the room with looks aghast. Bruce and Wallace started on their feet and laid their hands on their swords. But instead of anything hostile appearing behind the servants, the inebriated figure of the Senecae staggered forward. The men, hardly awake, stood staring and trembling, and looking from the Senecae to Wallace, at last one, extricating his terror-struck tongue, falling on his knees, exclaimed, Blessed Saint Andrew, here is the Senecae and his Wraith. Bruce perceived the mistake of his servants, and explaining to them that a travelling minstrel had obliged the Senecae by performing his duty, he bade them retire to rest, and think no more of their alarm. The intoxicated bard threw himself without ceremony on his palate in the recess, and the servants, though convinced, still shaking with superstitious fright, entreated permission to bring their heather-beds into their Lord's chamber. To deny them was impossible, and all further converse with Wallace that night, being put an end to, a couch was laid for him in an interior apartment, and with a grateful pressure of the hands in which their hearts silently embraced, the chiefs separated to oppose. CHAPTER 58 THE BISHOP'S PALACE The second mat and bell sounded from the abbey before the eyes of Wallace opened from the deep sleep which had sealed them. A bath refreshed him from every toil, then renewing the stain on his face and hands with the juice of a nut which he carried about him, and once more covering his marshal figure and golden hair with the minstrel's cassock and cowl, he rejoined his friend. Bruce had previously affected to consider the Senecae as still disordered by his last night's success, and ordering him from his presence for at least a day commanded that the traveling minstrel should be summoned to supply his place. The table was spread when Wallace entered, and several servants were in attendance. Bruce hastily rose and would have embraced him, so did his comforted heart spring to meet his friend. But before these people it would have been more than imprudent, and hailing him with only one of his love-beaming looks, he made a sign to him to take his place at a board near his own. To prevent suspicion in the attendance, some of whom might be spies of Edwards, during the repast he discoursed with Wallace on subjects relative to northern literature, repeating many passages opposite to his own heroic sentiments from Ocean and other Scottish bards. The meal finished Wallace to maintain his assumed character while the servants were removing the table, was tuning his harp when the Earl of Gloucester entered the room. The Earl told Bruce the king had required the attendance of the boarder minstrel, and that after searching over the castle the royal seneschal had at last discovered he was in the keep with him. On this being intimated to Gloucester he chose rather to come himself to demand the harper from his friend than to subject him to the insolence of the royal servants. The king desired to hear the triumph, with which the minstrel had so much pleased the queen. Bruce turned pale at this message and was opening his mouth to utter a denial when Wallace, who read in his countenance what he was going to say and aware of the consequences, immediately spoke. If my lord Bruce will grant permission I should wish to comply with the king of England's request. Minstrel cried Bruce, casting on him a powerful expression of what was passing in his mind. You know not, perhaps, that the king of England is at enmity with me, and cannot mean well to anyone who has been my guest or servant. The Earl of Gloucester will excuse your attendance in the presence. Not for my life were the minstrels replied the Earl, the king would suspect some mystery, and this innocent man might fall into peril. But as it is his majesty merely wishes to hear him play and sing, and I pledge myself he shall return in safety. Further opposition would only have courted danger, and with as good a grace as he could assume, Bruce gave his consent. A page who followed Gloucester took up the harp, and with a glance at his friend, which spoke the fearless mind with which he ventured into the power of his enemy, Wallace accompanied Gloucester out of the room. The Earl moved swiftly forward and leading him through a double line of guards, the folding doors of the royal apartment were thrown open by two nights in waiting, and Wallace found himself in the royal presence. Perforated with wounds which the chief's own hand had given him, the king lay upon a couch overhung with a crimson velvet canopy, with long golden fringes which swept the floor. His crown stood on a cushion at his head, and his queen, the blooming Margaret of France, sat full of smiles at his feet. The young Countess of Gloucester occupied a seat by her side. The Countess, who from Indus' position had not been at court the preceding day, fixed her eyes on the minstrel as he advanced into the middle of the room where the page by Gloucester's orders planted the harp. She observed the manner of his obeisance to the king and queen, and to herself, and the queen whispering her with a smile said while he was taking his station at the harp, Have your British troubadours usually such an air as that? Am I right or am I wrong? Quite right replied the Countess in as low a voice. I suppose he has sung of kings and heroes till he cannot help assuming their step and demeanour. But how did he come by those eyes, answered the queen, if singing of Reuther's beamy gaze have so richly endowed his own, by getting him to teach me his art I may warble myself into a complexion as fair as any northern beauty. But then his must not be the subject of your song, whispered the Countess with a laugh, for me thinks it is rather of the Ethiope hue. During this short dialogue, which was heard by none but the two ladies, Edward was speaking with Gloucester and Wallace leaned upon his harp. That is enough said the king to his son-in-law, now let me hear him play. The earl gave the word, and Wallace, striking the cords with the master hand of genius, called forth such strains and uttered such tones from his full and richly modulated voice that the king listened with wonder, and the queen and Countess scarcely allowed themselves to breathe. He sung of the parting of Reuther and his bride, and their souls seemed to pant upon his notes. He changed his measure, and their bosoms heaved with the enthusiasm which spoke from his lips and hand, for he urged the hero to battle. He described the conflict, he mourned the slain, he sung the glorious triumph. As the last sweep of the harp rolled its lofty diapason on the ear of the king, the monarch dained to pronounce him unequaled in his art. Excessive delight so agitated the more delicate frames of the ladies, that while they poured their ancomiums on the minstrel, they wiped the glistening tears from their cheeks. The queen approached him, laid her hand upon the harp, and touching the strings with a light finger said with a sweet smile, you must remain with the king's musicians and teach me how to charm as you do. Wallis replied to this innocent speech with a smile as sweet as her own, and bowed. The Countess drew near, though not much older than the youthful queen she had been married twice, and being therefore more acquainted with the proprieties of life, her compliments were uttered in a form more befitting her rank, and the supposed quality of the man to whom the queen continued to pour forth her less considerate praises. Edward desired Gloucester to bring the minstrel closer to him. Wallis approached the royal couch. Edward looked at him from head to foot before he spoke. Wallis bore his eagle gaze with an undisturbed countenance. He neither withdrew his eye from the king, nor did he allow a conqueror's fire to emit from its glance. Who are you at length, demanded Edward, who surprised at the noble mean and unabashed carriage of the minstrel, conceived some suspicions of his quality. Wallis saw what was passing in the king's mind and, determining by a frank reply to uproot his doubts, mildly but fearlessly answered, a scot. Indeed, said the king, satisfied that no incendiary would dare thus to proclaim himself, and how durst you, being of that outlawed nation, venture into my court? Feared you not to fall a sacrifice to my indignation against the mad leader of your rebellious countrymen? I fear nothing on earth, replied Wallis. This garb is privileged. None who respect that sacred law dare commit violence on a minstrel, and against them who regard no law but that of their own wills, I have this weapon to defend me. As Wallis spoke he pointed to a dirk stuck in his girdle. You are a bold man and an honest man, I believe, replied the king, and as my queen desires it I order your enrolment in my travelling train of musicians. You may leave the presents. Then follow me to my apartment, cried the queen. Countess, you will accompany me to see me take my first lesson. A page took up the harp and Wallis bowing his head to the king was conducted by Gloucester to the anti-room of the queen's apartments. The earl there told him that when dismissed by the queen a page he would leave would show him the way back to Lord Carrick. The royal Margaret herself opened the door, so eager was she to admit her teacher, and placing herself at the harp she attempted a passage of the triumph which had particularly struck her, but she played wrong. Wallis was asked to set her right, he obeyed. She was quick, he clear in his explanations, and in less than half an hour he made her execute the whole movement in a manner that delighted her. Why minstrel cried she looking up in his face? Either your harp is enchanted or you are a magician. I have studied three long years to play the lute and could never bring forth any tone that did not make me ready to stop my own ears. And now Countess cried she, again touching a few chords, did you ever hear anything so enchanting? I suppose returned the Countess all your former instructors have been novices and this scot alone knows the art to which they pretended. Do you hear what the Countess says exclaimed the queen affecting to whisper to him, she will not allow of any spiritual agency in my wonderfully awakened talent. If you can contradict her, do, for I want very much to believe in fairies, magicians, and all the enchanting world. Wallis, with a respectful smile, answered, I know of no spirit that has interposed in your majesty's favour but that of your own genius, and it is more efficient than the agency of all fairyland. The queen looked at him very gravely and said, If you really think there is no such thing as fairies and enchantments, for so your words would imply, then everybody in your country must have genius, for they seem to be excellent in everything. Your warriors are so peerlessly brave, all accepting these Scottish lords who are such favourites with the king. I wonder what he can see in their uncouth faces or find in their rough, indelicate conversation to admire. If it had not been for their besetting, migratious Edward, I am sure he never would have suspected ill of the noble Bruce. Queen Margaret cried the Countess of Gloucester, giving her a look of respectful reprehension, had not the minstrel better retire? The queen blushed and recollected that she was giving two free event to her sentiments, but she could not suffer Wallis to withdraw. I have yet to ask you, resumed she, the warriors of Scotland being so resistless and their minstrels so perfect in their art, whether all the ladies can be so beautiful as the Lady Helen Marr. The eagerness with which Wallis grasped at any tidings of her who was so prime an object of his enterprise, at once disturbed the composure of his heir, and had the penetrating eyes of the Countess been then directed toward him, she might have drawn some dangerous conclusions from the start he gave at the mention of her name, and from the heightened colour, which in spite of his exertions to suppress all evident emotion maintained its station on his cheek. But perhaps you have never seen her, added the queen. Wallis replied, neither denying nor affirming her question. I have heard many praise her beauty, but more her virtues. Well, I am sorry, continued her Majesty, since you sing so sweetly a female charms, that you have not seen this wonder of Scottish ladies. You have now little chance of that good fortune, for the earld of a lance has taken her abroad, intending to marry her amidst all the state with which my lord has invested him. Is it to Guyen he has taken her, inquired Wallis? Yes, replied the queen, rather pleased, then offended at the minstrel's ignorance of court ceremony, in thus familiarly presuming to put a question to her. She continued to answer. While so near Scotland he could not win her to forget her native country and her father's danger, who it seems was dying when Duvalance carried her away. And to prevent bloodshed between the earl and Sulis, who is also madly in love with her, my ever-gracious Edward gave the English Lord a high post in Guyen, and thither they are gone. Before Wallis could reply to some remark which the queen laughingly added to her information, the Countess thought it proper to give her gay mother-in-law a more decisive reminder of decorum, and rising she whispered something which covered the youthful Margaret in blushes. Her Majesty rose directly, and, pushing away the harp, hurryingly said, You may leave the room, and, turning her back to Wallis, walked away through an opposite door.