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The Scottish Chiefs

by Jane Porter · English · Gutenberg #6086 · 1,645,746 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Scottish Chiefs

Author: Jane Porter


        
Release date: July 1, 2004 [eBook #6086]
                Most recently updated: October 12, 2011

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/6086

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The Scottish Chiefs
by Miss Jane Porter




Chapter I.

Scotland.


Bright was the summer of 1296.  The war which had desolated Scotland
was then at an end.  Ambition seemed satiated; and the vanquished,
after having passed under the yoke of their enemy, concluded they might
wear their chains in peace.  Such were the hopes of those Scottish
noblemen who, early in the preceding spring, had signed the bond of
submission to a ruthless conqueror, purchasing life at the price of all
that makes life estimable-liberty and honor.

Prior to this act of vassalage, Edward I., King of England, had entered
Scotland at the head of an immense army.  He seized Berwick by
stratagem; laid the country in ashes; and, on the field of Dunbar,
forced the Scottish king and his nobles to acknowledge him their liege
lord.

But while the courts of Edward, or of his representatives, were crowded
by the humbled Scots, the spirit of one brave man remained unsubdued.
Disgusted alike at the facility with which the sovereign of a warlike
nation could resign his people and his crown into the hands of a
treacherous invader, and at the pusillanimity of the nobles who had
ratified the sacrifice, William Wallace retired to the glen of
Ellerslie.  Withdrawn from the world, he hoped to avoid the sight of
oppressions he could not redress, and the endurance of injuries beyond
his power to avenge.

Thus checked at the opening of life in the career of glory that was his
passion-secluded in the bloom of manhood from the social haunts of
men--he repressed the eager aspirations of his mind, and strove to
acquire that resignation to inevitable evils which alone could
reconcile him to forego the promises of his youth, and enable him to
view with patience a humiliation of Scotland, which blighted her honor,
menaced her existence, and consigned her sons to degradation or
obscurity.  The latter was the choice of Wallace.  Too noble to bend
his spirit to the usurper, too honest to affect submission, he resigned
himself to the only way left of maintaining the independence of a true
Scot; and giving up the world at once, all the ambitions of youth
became extinguished in his breast, since nothing was preserved in his
country to sanctify their fires.  Scotland seemed proud of her chains.
Not to share in such debasement, appeared all that was now in his
power; and within the shades of Ellerslie he found a retreat and a
home, whose sweets beguiling him of every care, made him sometimes
forget the wrongs of his country in the tranquil enjoyments of wedded
love.

During the happy mouths of the preceding autumn, while Scotland was yet
free, and the path of honorable distinction still open before her young
nobility, Wallace married Marion Braidfoot, the beautiful heiress of
Lammington.  Nearly of the same age, and brought up from childhood
together, reciprocal affection had grown with their growth; and
sympathy of tastes and virtues, and mutual tenderness, made them so
entirely one, that when at the age of twenty-two the enraptured lover
was allowed to pledge that faith publicly at the altar, which he had so
often vowed in secret to his Marion, he clasped her to his heart, and
softly whispered: "Dearer than life! part of my being! blessed is this
union, that mingles thy soul with mine, now, and forever!"

Edward's invasion of Scotland broke in upon their innocent joys.
Wallace threw aside the wedding garment for the cuirass and the sword.
But he was not permitted long to use either--Scotland submitted to her
enemies; and he had no alternative but to bow to her oppressors, or to
become an exile from man, amid the deep glens of his country.

The tower of Ellerslie was henceforth the lonely abode of himself and
his bride.  The neighboring nobles avoided him, because the principles
he declared were a tacit reproach on their proceedings; and in the
course of a short time, as he forbore to seek them, they even forgot
that he was in existence.  Indeed, all occasions of mixing with society
he now rejected.  The hunting-spear with which he had delighted to
follow the flying roebuck from glade to glade, the arrows with which he
used to bring down the heavy ptarmigan or the towering eagle, all were
laid aside.  Scottish liberty was no more; and Wallace would have
blushed to have shown himself to the free-born deer of his native
hills, in communion of sports with the spoilers of his country.  Had he
pursued his once favorite exercises, he must have mingled with the
English, now garrisoned in every town, and who passed their hours of
leisure in the chase.

Being resigned to bury his youth--since its strength could no longer be
serviceable to his country-books, his harp, and the sweet converse of
his tender Marion, became the occupations of his days.  Ellerslie was
his hermitage; and there, closed from the world, with an angel his
companion, he might have forgotten Edward was lord in Scotland, had not
that which was without his little paradise made a way to its gates, and
showed him the slavery of the nobles and the wretchedness of the
people.  In these cases, his generous hand gave succor where it could
not bring redress.  Those whom the lawless plunderer had driven from
their houses or stripped of their covering, found shelter, clothing,
and food at the house of Sir William Wallace.

Ellerslie was the refuge of the friendless, and the comfort of the
unhappy.  Wherever Lady Wallace moved--whether looking out from her
window on the accidental passenger, or taking her morning or moonlight
walks through the glen, leaning on the arm of her husband--she had the
rapture of hearing his steps greeted and followed by the blessings of
the poor destitute, and the prayers of them who were ready to perish.
It was then that this happy woman would raise her husband's hands to
her lips, and in silent adoration, thank God for blessing her with a
being made so truly in his own image.

Several months of this blissful and uninterrupted solitude had elapsed,
when Lady Wallace saw a chieftain at her gate.  He inquired for its
master--requested a private conference--and retired with him into a
remote room.  They remained together for an hour.  Wallace then came
forth, and ordering his horse, with four followers, to be in readiness,
said he meant to accompany his guest to Douglas Castle.  When he
embraced his wife at parting, he told her that as Douglas was only a
few miles distant, he should be at home again before the moon rose.

She passed the tedious hours of his absence with tranquillity, till the
appointed signal of his return appeared from behind the summits of the
opposite mountains.  So bright were its beams, that Marion did not need
any other light to show her the stealing sands of her hour-glass, as
they numbered the prolonged hours of her husband's stay.  She dismissed
her servants to their rest; all, excepting Halbert, the gray-haired
harper of Wallace; and he, like herself, was too unaccustomed to the
absence of his master to find sleep visit his eyes while Ellerslie was
bereft of its joy and its guard.

As the night advanced, Lady Wallace sat in the window of her
bed-chamber, which looked toward the west.  She watched the winding
pathway that led from Lanark down the opposite heights, eager to catch
a glimpse of the waving plumes of her husband when he should emerge
from behind the hill, and pass under the thicket which overhung the
road.  How often, as a cloud obscured for an instant the moon's light,
and threw a transitory shade across the path, did her heart bound with
the thought that her watching was at an end!  It was he whom she had
seen start from the abrupt rock!  They were the folds of his tartan
that darkened the white cliff!  But the moon again rolled through her
train of clouds and threw her light around.  Where then was her
Wallace?  Alas! it was only a shadow she had seen! the hill was still
lonely, and he whom she sought was yet far away!  Overcome with
watching, expectation, and disappointment, unable to say whence arose
her fears, she sat down again to look; but her eyes were blinded with
tears, and in a voice interrupted by sighs she exclaimed, "Not yet, not
yet!  Ah, my Wallace, what evil hath betided thee?"

Trembling with a nameless terror, she knew not what to dread.  She
believed that all hostile recounters had ceased, when Scotland no
longer contended with Edward.  The nobles, without remonstrance, had
surrendered their castles into the hands of the usurper; and the
peasantry, following the example of their lords, had allowed their
homes to be ravaged without lifting an arm in their defense.
Opposition being over, nothing could then threaten her husband from the
enemy; and was not the person who had taken him from Ellerslie a friend?

Before Wallace's departure he had spoken to Marion alone; he told her
that the stranger was Sir John Monteith, the youngest son of the brave
Walter Lord Monteith,** who had been treacherously put to death by the
English in the early part of the foregoing year.  This young man was
bequeathed by his dying father to the particular charge of his friend
William Lord Douglas, at that time governor of Berwick.  After the fall
of that place and the captivity of its defender, Sir Jon Monteith had
retired to Douglas Castle, in the vicinity of Lanark, and was now the
sole master of that princely residence: James Douglas, the only son of
its veteran lord, being still at Paris, whither he had been dispatched,
before the defeat at Dunbar, to negotiate a league between the French
monarch and the then King of Scots.

**Walter Stewart, the father of Sir John Monteith, assumed the name and
earldom of Monteith in right of his wife, the daughter and heiress of
the preceding earl.  When his wife died he married an Englishwoman of
rank, who, finding him ardently attached to the liberties of his
country, cut him off by poison, and was rewarded by the enemies of
Scotland for this murder with the hand of a British nobleman.-(1809.)

Informed of the privacy in which Wallace wished to live, Monteith had
never ventured to disturb it until this day; but knowing the steady
honor of his old school-companion, he came to entreat him, by the
respect he entertained for the brave Douglas, and by his love for his
country, that he would not refuse to accompany him to the brave exile's
castle.

"I have a secret to disclose to you," said he, "which cannot be
divulged on any other spot."

Unwilling to deny so small a favor, Wallace, as has been said before,
consented; and accordingly was conducted by Monteith toward Douglas.

While descending the heights which led to the castle, Monteith kept a
profound silence; and when crossing the drawbridge toward it, he put
his finger to his lips, in token to the servants for equal caution.
This was explained as they entered the gate and looked around.  It was
guarded by English soldiers.  Wallace would have drawn back; but
Monteith laid his hand on his arm, and whispered, "For your country!"
At these words, a spell to the ear of Wallace, he proceeded; and his
attendants followed into the courtyard.

The sun was just setting as Monteith led his friend into the absent
earl's room.  Its glowing reflection on the distant hills reminded
Wallace of the stretch he had to retread to reach his home before
midnight; and thinking of his anxious Marion, he awaited with
impatience the development of the object of his journey.

Monteith closed the door, looked fearfully around for some time; then,
trembling at every step, approached Wallace.  When drawn quite near, in
a low voice he said, "You must swear upon the cross that you will keep
inviolate the secret I am going to reveal."

Wallace put aside the hilt of the sword which Monteith presented to
receive his oath.  "No," said he, with a smile; "in these times I will
not bind my conscience on subjects I do not know.  If you dare trust
the word of a Scotsman and a friend, speak out; and if the matter be
honest, my honor is your pledge."

"You will not swear?"

"No."

"Then I must not trust you."

"Then our business is at an end," returned Wallace, rising, "and I may
return home."

"Stop!" cried Monteith.  "Forgive me, my old companion, that I have
dared to hesitate.  These are, indeed, times of such treason to honor,
that I do not wonder you should be careful how you swear; but the
nature of the confidence reposed in me will.  I hope, convince you that
I ought not to share it rashly.  Of any one but you, whose truth stands
unsullied, amidst the faithlessness of the best, I would exact oaths on
oaths; but your words is given, and on that I rely.  Await me here."

Monteith unlocked a door which had been concealed by the tapestry, and
after a short absence re-entered with a small iron box.  He set it on
the table near his friend, then went to the great door, which he had
before so carefully closed, tried that the bolts were secure, and
returned, with a still more pallid countenance, toward the table.
Wallace, surprised at so much actions, awaited with wonder the promised
explanation.  Monteith sat down with his hand on the box, and fixing
his eyes on it, began:

"I am going to mention a name, which you may hear with patience, since
its power is no more.  The successful rival of Bruce, and the enemy of
your family, is now a prisoner in the Tower of London."

"Baliol?"

"Yes," answered Monteith; "and his present sufferings will, perhaps,
avenge to you his vindictive resentment of the injury he received from
Sir Ronald Crawford."

"My grandfather never injured him, nor any man!" interrupted Wallace:
"Sir Ronald Crawford was as incapable of injustice as of flattering the
minions of his country's enemy. But Baliol is fallen, and I forgive
him."

"Did you witness his degradation," returned Monteith, "you would even
pity him."

"I always pity the wicked," continued Wallace; "and as you seem
ignorant of the cause of his enmity against Sir Ronald and myself, in
justice to the character of that most venerable of men, I will explain
it. I first saw Baliol four years ago, when I accompanied my
grandfather to witness the arbitration of the King of Scotland between
the two contending claimants for the Scottish crown.  Sir Ronald came
on the part of Bruce.  I was deemed too young to have a voice in the
council; but I was old enough to understand what was passing there, and
to perceive, that it was the price for which he sold his country.
However, as Scotland acknowledged him sovereign, and as Bruce
submitted, my grandfather silently acquiesced.  But Baliol did not
forget former opposition.  His behavior to Sir Ronald and myself at the
beginning of this year, when, according to the privilege of our birth,
we appeared in the field against the public enemy, fully demonstrated
what was the injury Baliol complains of, and how unjustly he drove us
from the standard of Scotland.  'None,' said he, 'shall serve under me,
who presumed to declare themselves the friends of Bruce.'  Poor weak
man.  The purchased vassal of England; yet so vain of his ideal throne,
he hated all who had opposed his elevation, even while his own
treachery sapped its foundation!  Edward having made use of him, all
these sacrifices of honor and of conscience are insufficient to retain
his favor; and Baliol is removed from his kingdom to an English prison!
Can I feel anything so honoring as indignation against a wretch so
abject?  No!  I do indeed pity him.  And now that I have cleared my
grandfather's name of such calumny, I am ready to hear you further."

Monteith, after remarking on the well-known honor of Sir Ronald
Crawford, resumed.

"During the massacre at the capture of Berwick, Lord Douglas, wounded,
and nearly insensible, was taken by a trusty band of Scots out of the
citadel and town.  I followed him to Dunbar, and witnessed with him
that dreadful day's conflict, which completed the triumph of the
English.  When the few nobles who survived the battle dispersed,
Douglas took the road to Forfar, hoping to meet King Baliol there, and
to concert with him new plans of resistance.  When we arrived, we found
his majesty in close conversation with the Earl of Athol, who had
persuaded him the disaster at Dunbar was decisive, and that if he
wished to save his life, he must immediately go to the King of England,
then at Montrose, and surrender himself to his mercy.**

**This treacherous Scot, who persuaded Baliol to his ruin, was John
Cummin of Strathbogie, Earl of Athol in right of his wife, the heiress
of that earldom.-(1809.)

"Douglas tried to alter Baliol's resolution, but without effect. The
king could not return any reasonable answers to the arguments which
were offered to induce him to remain, but continued to repeat, with
groans and tears.  'It is my fate.'  Athol sat knitting his black brows
during this conversation; and at last throwing out some sullen remarks
to Lord Douglas on exhorting the king to defy his liege lord, he
abruptly left the room.

"As soon as he was gone, Baliol rose from his seat with a very anxious
countenance, and taking my patron into an adjoining room, they
continued there a few minutes, and then reentered.  Doublas brought
with him this iron box.  'Monteith,' said he, 'I confide this to your
care.'  Putting the box under my arm and concealing it with my
cloak--'Carry it,' continued he, 'directly to my castle in Lanarkshire.
I will rejoin you there, in four-and-twenty hours after your arrival.
Meanwhile, by your affection for me and fidelity to your king, breathe
not a word of what has passed.'

"'Look on that, and be faithful!' said Baliol, putting this ruby ring
on my finger.  I withdrew, with the haste his look dictated; and as I
crossed the outward hall, was met by Athol.  He eyed me sternly, and
inquired whither I was going.  I replied, 'To Douglas, to prepare for
the coming of its lord.'  The hall was full of armed men in Athol's
colors.  Not one of the remnant who had followed my patron from the
bloody field of Dunbar was visible.  Athol looked round on his
myrmidons: 'Here,' cried he, 'see that you speed this fellow on his
journey.  We shall provide lodgings for his master.'  I foresaw danger
to Lord Douglas, but I durst not attempt to warn him of it; and, to
secure my charge, which a return to the room might have hazarded, I
hastened into the courtyard, and being permitted to mount my horse, set
off at full speed.

"On arriving at this place, I remembered the secret closet, and
carefully deposited the box within it.  A week passed, without any
tidings of Lord Douglas.  At last a pilgrim appeared at the gate, and
requested to see me alone; fearing nothing from a man in so sacred a
habit, I admitted him.  Presenting me with a packet which had been
intrusted to him by Lord Douglas, he told me my patron had been
forcibly carried on board a vessel at Montrose, to be conveyed with the
unhappy Baliol to the Tower of London.  Douglas, on this outrage, sent
to the monastery at Aberbrothick, and under the pretense of making a
religious confession before he sailed, begged a visit from the
sub-prior.  'I am that prior,' continued the pilgrim; 'and having been
born on the Douglas lands, he well knew the claim he had to my
fidelity.  He gave me this packet, and conjured me to lose no time in
conveying it to you.  The task was difficult; and, as in these
calamitous seasons we hardly know whom to trust, I determined to
execute it myself.'

"I inquired whether Lord Douglas had actually sailed. 'Yes,' replied
the father; 'I stood on the beach till the ship disappeared.'"

A half-stifled groan burst from the indignant breast of Wallace.  It
interrupted Monteith for an instant, but without noticing it he
proceeded:

"Not only the brave Douglas was then wrested from his country, with our
king, but also that holy pillar of Jacob** which prophets have declared
to be the palladium of Scotland!"

**The tradition respecting this stone is as follows: Hiber, or Iber,
the Phoenician, who came from the Holy Land to inhabit the coast of
Spain, brought this sacred relic along with him.  From Spain he
transplanted it with the colony he sent to people the south of Ireland;
and from Ireland it was brought into Scotland by the great Fergus, the
son of Ferchard.  He placed it in Argyleshire; but MacAlpine removed it
to Scone, and fixed it in the royal chair in which all the succeeding
kings of Scotland were inaugurated.  Edward I. of England caused it to
be carried to Westminster Abbey, where it now stands.  The tradition
is, that empire abides where it stays.-(1809.)

"What!" inquired Wallace, with a yet darker frown, "has Baliol robbed
Scotland of that trophy of one of her best kings? Is the sacred gift of
Fergus to be made the spoil of a coward?"

"Baliol is not the robber," rejoined Monteith; "the halloed pillar was
taken from Scone by the command of the King of England, and, with the
sackings of Iona, was carried on board the same vessel with the
betrayed Douglas.  The archives of the kingdom have also been torn from
their sanctuary, and were thrown by Edward's own hands into the fire."

"Tyrant!" murmured Wallace, "thou mayest fill the cup too full."

"His depredations," continued Monteith, "the good monk told me, have
been wide as destructive.  He has not left a parchment, either of
public records or of private annals, in any of the monasteries or
castles round Montrose; all have been searched and plundered.  And
besides, the faithless Earl of March and Lord Sculis are such
parricides of their country, as to have performed the like robberies,
in his name, from the eastern shores of the Highlands to the furthiest
of the Western Isles."

"Do the traitors think," cried Wallace, "that by robbing Scotland of
her annals and of that stone they really deprive her of her palladium?
Scotland's history is in the memories of her sons; her palladium is in
their hearts; and Edward may one day find that she remembers the
victory of Largs,** and needs not talismans to give her freedom."

**This battle was fought by Alexander III, on the 1st of August, 1263,
against Acho, King of Norway.  That monarch invaded Scotland with a
large army, and drew up his forces before Largs, a town in Ayrshire.
He met with a great defeat, and, covered with disgrace, retired to his
own country.  Wallace's father signalized himself on that field.-(1809.)

"Alas! not in our time!" answered Monteith.  "The spear is at our
breasts, and we must submit.  You see this castle is full of Edward's
soldiers.  Every house is a garrison for England--but more of this by
and by; I have yet to tell you the contents of the packet which the
monk brought.  It contained two others.  One directed to Sir James
Douglas, at Paris, and the other to me. I read as follows:

"'Athol has persuaded Baliol to his ruin, and betrayed me into the
hands of Edward.  I shall see Scotland no more.  Send the inclosed to
my son at Paris; it will inform him what is the last wish of William
Douglas for his country.  The iron box I confided to you, guard as your
life, until you can deposit it with my son.  But should he remain
abroad, and you ever be in extremity, commit the box in strict charge
to the worthiest Scot you know; and tell him that it will be at the
peril of his soul, who dares to open it, till Scotland be again free!
When that hour comes, then let the man by whose valor God restores her
rights, receive the box as his own; for by him only it is to be opened.
Douglas.'"

Monteith finished reading the letter, and remained silent.  Wallace,
who had listened to it with increasing indignation against the enemies
of Scotland, spoke first: "Tell me in what I can assist you: or how
serve these last wishes of the imprisoned Douglas."

Monteith replied by reading over again this sentence-"'Should my son
remain abroad, and you ever be in extremity, commit the box in strict
charge to the worthiest Scot you know.'  I am in that extremity now.
Edward determined on desolation, when he placed English governors
throughout our towns; and the rapacious Heselrigge, his representative
in Lanark, not backward to execute the despot's will, has just issued
an order, for the houses of all the absent chiefs to be searched for
records and secret correspondence.  Two or three, in the neighborhood
have already gone through this ordeal; but the even has proved that it
was not papers they sought, but plunder, and an excuse for dismantling
the castles, or occupying them with English officers.

"The soldiers you saw were sent, by daybreak this morning, to guard
this castle until Heselrigge could in person be present at the
examination.  This ceremony is to take place to-morrow; and as Lord
Douglas is considered a traitor to Edward, I am told the place will be
sacked to its walls.  In such an extremity, to you, noble Wallace, as
to the worthiest Scot I know, I apply to take charge of this box.
Within the remote cliffs of Ellerslie it must be safe; and when James
Douglas arrives from Paris, to him you will resign it.  Meanwhile, as I
cannot resist the plunderers, after delivering the keys of the state
apartments to Heselrigge to-morrow, I shall submit to necessity, and
beg his permission to retire to my lodge on Ben Venu."

Wallace made no difficulty in granting Monteith's request; and, there
being two iron rings on each side of his charge, the young chief took
off his leathern belt, and putting it through them, swung the box
easily under his left arm, while covering it with his plaid.

Monteith's eyes now brightened--the paleness left his cheek--and with a
firmer step, as if suddenly relieved of a heavy load, he called a
servant to prepare Sir William Wallace's attendants.

While Wallace shook him by the hand, Monteith, in a low and solemn
voice, exhorted him to caution respecting the box.  "Remember," added
he, "the penalty that hangs over him who looks into it."

"Be not afraid," answered Wallace; "even the outside shall never be
seen by other eyes than my own, unless the same circumstance which now
induces you, mortal extremity, should force me to confide it to safer
hands."

"Beware of that!" exclaimed Monteith; "for who is there that would
adhere to the prohibition as I have done--as you will do? and besides,
as I have no doubt it contains holy relics, who knows what new
calamities a sacrilegious look might bring upon our already devoted
country?"

"Relics or no relics," replied Wallace, "it would be an equal sin
against good faith to invade what is forbidden: but from the weight I
am rather inclined to suspect it contains gold; probably a treasure,
with which the sordid Baliol thinks to compensate the hero who may free
his country from all the miseries a traitor king and a treacherous
usurper have brought upon it."

"A treasure!" repeated Monteith; "I never thought of that;-it is indeed
heavy!-and, as we are responsible for the contents of the box, I wish
we were certain of what it contains; let us consider that!"

"It is no consideration of ours," returned Wallace.  "With what is in
the box we have no concern; all we have to do is, to preserve the
contents unviolated by even our own eyes; and to that, as you have now
transferred the charge to me, I pledge myself--farewell."

"But why this haste?" rejoined Monteith, "indeed, I wish I had
thought--stay only a little."

"I thank you," returned Wallace, proceeding to the courtyard; "but it
is now dark, and I promised to be at home before the moon rises.  If
you wish me to serve you further, I shall be happy to see you at
Ellerslie to-morrow.  My Marion will have pleasure in entertaining, for
days or weeks, the friend of her husband."

While Wallace spoke, he advanced to his horse, to which he was lighted
by the servants of the castle.  A few English soldiers lingered about
in idle curiosity.  As he put his foot in the stirrup, he held the
sword in his hand, which he had unbuckled from his side to leave space
for his charge.  Monteith, whose dread of detection was ever awake,
whispered: "Your loosened weapon may excite suspicion!" Fear incurred
what it sought to avoid.  He hastily pulled aside Wallace's plaid to
throw it over the glittering hilt of the sword, and thus exposed the
iron box.  The light of the torches striking upon the polished rivets,
displayed it to all lookers on, but no remark was made.  Wallace, not
observing what was done, again shook hands with Monteith, and calling
his servants about him, galloped away.  A murmur was heard, as if of
some intention to follow him; but deeming it prudent to leave the open
and direct road, because of the English marauders who swarmed there, he
was presently lost amid the thick shades of Clydesdale.




Chapter II.

Lanark.


The darkness was almost impenetrable.  Musing on what had passed with
Monteith, and on the likelihood of any hero appearing, who, by freeing
his country, could ever claim the privilege of investigating the
mystery which was now his care.  Wallace rode on till, crossing the
bridge of Lanark, he saw the rising moon silver the tops of the distant
hills; and then his meditations embraced a gentler subject.  This was
the time he had promised Marion he should be returned, and he had yet
five long miles to go, before he could reach the glen of Ellerslie; he
thought of her being alone--of watching, with an anxious heart, the
minutes of his delay.  Scotland and its wrongs he now forgot, in the
idea of her whose happiness was dearer to him than life.  He could not
achieve the deliverance of the one, but it was his bliss to preserve
the peace of the other; and putting spurs to his horse, under the now
bright beams of the moon he hastened through the town.

Abruptly turning an angle leading to the Mouse River, a cry of murder
arrested his ear.  He checked his horse and listened.  The clashing of
arms told him the sound had issued from an alley to the left.  He
alighted in an instant, and drawing his sword, threw away the scabbard
(prophetic omen!), then, leaving his horse with one of his servants
hastened, with the other three, to the spot whence the noise proceeded.

On arriving he discovered two men in tartans, with their backs to the
opposite wall, furiously assaulted by a throng of Edward's soldiers.
At this sight, the Scots who accompanied Wallace were so enraged that,
blowing their bugles to encourage the assailed, they joined hand to
hand with their gallant leader, and attacking the banditti, each man
cut his opponent to the ground.

Such unexpected assistance reanimated the drooping strength of one of
the two, with whom the cry had issued.  He sprung from the wall with
the vigor of a tiger, but at the moment received a wound in his back,
which would have thrown him at the feet of his enemies, had not Wallace
caught him in his left arm, and with his right, cleared the way, while
he cried to his men who were fighting near him-"To the Glen!"  As he
spoke, he threw the now insensible stranger into their arms.  The other
man, whose voice had first attracted Wallace, at the instant sunk,
covered with blood, on the pavement.

Two of the servants, obeying their master, carried their senseless
burden toward the horses; but the third, being hemmed in by the furious
soldiers, could not move.  Wallace made a passage to his rescue, and
effected it; but one base wretch, while the now wounded Scot was
retreating, made a stroke which would have severed his head from his
body, had not the trusty claymore of Wallace struck down the pending
weapon of the coward, and received his rushing body upon its point.  He
fell with bitter imprecations, calling aloud for vengeance.

A dreadful cry was now raised by the whole band of assassins:
"Murder!-treason!-Arthur Heselrigge is slain!"  The uproar became
general.  The windows of the adjoining houses were thrown open; people
armed and unarmed issued from their doors and pressed forward to
inquire the cause of the alarm.  Wallace was nearly overpowered; a
hundred swords flashed in the torchlight; but at the moment he expected
they would be sheathed in his heart, the earth gave way under his feet,
and he sunk into utter darkness.

He fell upon a quantity of gathered broom; and concluding that the
weight of the thronging multitude had burst his way through the arch of
a cellar, he sprung to his feet; and though he heard the curses of
several wretches, who had fallen with him and fared worse, he made but
one step to a half-opened door, pointed out to him by a gleam from an
inner passage.  The men uttered a shout as they saw him darken the
light which glimmered through it; but they were incapable of pursuit;
and Wallace, aware of his danger, darting across the adjoining
apartment, burst open a window, and leaped out to the foot of the
Lanark hills.

The oaths of the soldiers, enraged at his escape, echoed in his ears,
till distance sunk them into hoarse murmurs.  He pursued his way over
the craigs; through the valley, and across the river, to the cliffs
which embattle the garden of Ellerslie.  Springing on the projecting
point of the nearest, he leaped into a thicket of honeysuckles.  This
was the favorite bower of his Marion!  The soft perfume, as it saluted
his senses, seemed to breathe peace and safety; and as he emerged from
its fragrant embrace, he walked with a calmer step toward the house.
He approached a door which led into the garden.  It was open.  He
beheld his beloved leaning over a couch, on which was laid the person
he had rescued.  Halbert was dressing his wounds.

Wallace paused for a moment, to contemplate his lovely wife in this
more lovely act of charity.  Her beautiful hands held a cup to the lips
of the stranger; while her long hair, escaped from its band, fell in
jetty ringlets, and mingled with his silver locks.

"Marion!" exclaimed the overflowing soul of her husband.  She looked up
at the well-known sound, and with a cry of joy, rushing forward, threw
herself into his arms; her tears flowed, she sobbed--she clung to his
breast.  It was the first time Wallace had been from her; she had
feared it would have been the last.  The hour--the conflict--the bleeding
stranger!  But now he was returned--he was safe!

"Art thou indeed here!" exclaimed she.  Blood fell from his forehead
upon her face and bosom: "O, my Wallace!" cried she, in agony.

"Fear not, my love! all is well, since our wounded countryman is safe."

"But you, bleed!" returned she.  No tears now impeded her voice.
Terror had checked their joyful currents; and she felt as if she
expected his life-blood to issue from the wound on which she gazed.

"I hope my preserver is not hurt?" inquired the stranger.

"Oh, no!" replied Wallace, putting back the hair from his forehead; "a
mere trifle!"  That the action had discovered the gash to be wider than
he thought, he saw in the countenance of his wife!  She turned deadly
pale.  "Marion," said he, "to convince you how causeless your fears
are, you shall cure me yourself; and with no other surgery than your
girdle!"

When Lady Wallace heard his gay tone, and saw the unforced smiles on
his lips, she took courage; and, remembering the deep wounds on the
stranger, whom she had just assisted to dress, without any alarm for
his life, she began to hope that she need not now fear for the object
dearest to her in existence.  Rising from her husband's arms, with a
languid smile she unbound the linen fillet from her waist; and Halbert
having poured some balsam into the wound, she prepared to apply the
bandage; but when she lifted her husband's hair from his temple--that
hair which had so often been the object of her admiration, as it hung
in shining masses over his arching brows!-when the clotted blood met
her fingers, a mist seemed to pass over her sight; she paused for a
moment; but rallying her strength, as the cheerful sound of his voice
conversing with his guest assured her fear was needless, she tied the
fillet; and, stealing a soft kiss on his cheek when she had finished,
she seated herself, yet trembling, by his side.

"Gallant Wallace!" continued the stranger-agitation had prevented her
hearing what had preceded this-"it is Donald Earl of Mar, who owes his
life to you."

"Then blessed be my arm," exclaimed Wallace, "that has preserved a life
so precious to my country!"

"May it indeed be blessed!" cried Lord Mar; "for this night it has made
the Southrons feel there is yet one man in Scotland who does not fear
to resist oppression, and to punish treachery."

"What treachery?" inquired Lady Wallace, her alarmed spirit still
hovering about her soul's far dearer part; "is any meant to my husband?"

"None to Sir William Wallace, more than to any other brave Scot,"
replied the earl: "but we all see the oppression of our country; we all
know the treachery by which it was subjugated; and this night, in my
own person, I have felt the effects of both.  The English at Lanark
dispatched a body of men to Bothwell Castle (where my family now are),
on a plea, that as its lord is yet absent, they presume he is adverse
to Edward, and therefore they must search his dwelling for documents to
settle the point.  Considering myself the representative of my
brother-in-law, Lord Bothwell, and suspecting that this might be only a
private marauding party, I refused to admit the soldiers; and saw them
depart, swearing to return next day with a stronger force, and storm
the castle.  To be ascertained of their commission, and to appeal
against such unprovoked tyranny, should it be true, I followed the
detachment to Lanark.

"I saw Heselrigge the governor.  He avowed the transaction; but awed by
the power which he thinks I possess in the country, he consented to
spare Bothwell while I and my family remain in it.  It being nearly
dark, I took my leave, and was proceeding toward my servants in the
courtyard when a young man accosted me.  I recognized him to be the
officer who had commanded the party I had driven from the castle.
Heselrigge having told me that he was his nephew, I made no hesitation
to go back with him, when he informed me that his uncle had forgotten
something of importance, and begged me to return.  I followed his
steps; but instead of conducting me to the room in which I had
conversed with Heselrigge, he led me along a dark passage into a small
apartment, where telling me his uncle would attend me, he suddenly
retreated out of the door, and before I could recollect myself I heard
him bolt it after him.

"I now saw myself a prisoner; and alarmed at what might be intended to
my defenseless family, I made every essay to force the door, but it was
in vain.  Driven to despair, I remained in a state of mind not to be
described, when the bolt was withdrawn, and two men entered, with
manacles in their hands.  They attempted to seize me, telling me I was
the prisoner of King Edward.  I did not listen further, but wounding
one with my dagger, felled the other to the ground; and darting past
him, made my way through what passages I cannot tell, till I found
myself in a street leading from behind the governor's house.  I ran
against some one as I rushed from the portal; it was my servant Neil.
I hastily told him to draw his sword and follow me.  We then hurried
forward; he telling me he had stepped out to observe the night, while
the rest of my men were awaiting me in the house, wondering at my delay.

"Rejoiced at my escape, and fearing the worst of consequences from the
treachery of Heselrigge, I was hastening onward, determined to pursue
my way on foot to the protection of my family, when, at the turning of
an angle which leads to the Bothwell road, we were suddenly surrounded
by armed men.  The moon shone full on their faces, and I discovered
they were Southrons, and that young Heselrigge was at their head.

"He aimed a blow at my head with his battle-ax, and in a voice of
triumph exclaimed to his soldiers, 'The plunder of Bothwell, my lads!
Down with its lord! All but the lady Helen shall be yours!"

"In a moment every sword was directed toward me.  They wounded me in
several places; but the thought of my daughter gave supernatural vigor
to my arm, and I defended myself till the cries of my servant brought
you, my brave deliverer, to my rescue.  But, while I am safe, perhaps
my treacherous pursuer has marched toward Bothwell, too sure to commit
the horrid violence he meditates; there are none to guard my child but
a few domestics, the unpracticed sword of my stripling nephew, and the
feeble arms of my wife."

"Be easy on that head," interrupted Wallace: "I believe the infamous
leader of the banditti fell by my hand, for the soldiers made an outcry
that Arthur Heselrigge was killed; and then pressing on me to take
revenge, their weight broke a passage into a vault, through which I
escaped-"

"Save, save yourself, my master!" cried a man rushing in from the
garden. "You are pursued-"

While he spoke he felt insensible at Wallace's feet.  It was
Dugald whom he had rescued from the blow of Heselrigge, and who, from
the state of his wound had been thus long in reaching Ellerslie.

Wallace had hardly time to give him to the care of Halbert, when the
voice of war assailed his ears.  The tumult of men demanding admittance
and the terrible sound of spears rattling against the shields of their
owners, told the astonished group within that the house was beset by
armed foes.

"Blood for blood!" cried a horrid voice, which penetrated the almost
palsied senses of Lady Marion.  "Vengence on Wallace, for the murder of
Heselrigge!"

"Fly, fly!" cried she, looking wildly at her husband.

"Whither?" answered he, supporting her in his arms.  "Would this be a
moment to leave you, and our wounded guest?  I must meet them."

"Not now!" cried Lord Mar.  "Hear you not how numerous they are?  Mark
that shout! they thirst for blood.  If you have love, pity, for your
wife, delay not a moment.  Again-"

The uproar redoubled, and the room was instantly filled with shrieking
women in their night-clothes, the attendants of Lady Wallace.  She
almost expiring, on her husband's breast.

"O my lord!" cried the terrified creatures, wringing their hands, "what
will become of us!  The Southrons are at the gates, and we shall be
lost forever!"

"Fear not," replied Wallace; "retire to your chambers.  I am the person
they seek: none else will meet with injury."

Appeased by this assurance, the women retreated to their apartments;
and Wallace, turning to the earl, who continued to enforce the
necessity of his flight, repeated, that he would not consent to leave
his wife in such a tumult.

"Leave me," cried she, in an inarticulate voice, "or see me die."

As she spoke, there was a violent crash, and a tremendous burst of
imprecations.  Three of Wallace's men ran panting into the room.  Two
of the assailants had climbed to the hall window; and had just been
thrown back upon the cliffs, where one was killed.  "Conceal yourself,"
said the Scots to Wallace; "for in a few minutes more your men will not
be able to maintain the gates."

"Yes, my dear lord," cried Halbert, "there is a dry well at the end of
the garden; at the bottom of that you will be safe."

"By your love for me, Wallace--by all you owe to the tender affections
of your grandfather, hearken to him!" cried Lady Marion, falling at his
feet, and clasping his knees.  "I kneel for my life in kneeling for
yours!  Pity the gray hairs of Sir Ronald, whom your untimely death
would bring to the grave!  Pity your unborn child!  Fly, Wallace, fly
if you would have me live!"  She was pale and breathless.

"Angel of my life," exclaimed Wallace, straining her to his heart, "I
obey thee.  But if the hand of one of the desperate robbers dares to
touch thy hallowed person-"

"Think not so, my lord," interrupted Halbert; "it is you they seek.
Not finding you, they will be too eager in pursuit to molest your lady."

"I shall be safe," whispered Marion; "only fly--while you are here,
their shouts kill me."

"But thou shalt go with me," returned he; "the well will contain us
all.  But first let our faithful Halbert and these honest fellows lower
Lord Mar into the place of refuge.  He being the cause of the affray,
if discovered, would be immediately sacrificed."

Lord Mar acquiesced; and while the contention was so loud without, as
to threaten the tearing down of the walls, the earl was carried into
the garden.  He was followed by Sir William Wallace, to whose arm his
wife yet fondly clung.  At every cry of the enemy, at every shock they
gave to his yet impregnable gates, she breathed the shorter, and was
clasped by the lord of her heart still more closely to his bosom.

At the well-side they found the earl bound with rope that was to lower
him to the bottom.  By great care it was safely done; and the cord
being brought up again, before it was tied round Wallace (for his
agonized wife insisted he should descend next), he recollected that the
iron box at his side might hurt the wounded nobleman by striking him in
his descent; and, unbuckling it, he said it contained matters of great
value, and ordered it to be lowered first.

Lord Mar, beneath, was releasing it from the rope, when a shout of
triumph pierced their ears.  A party of the English, having come round
the heights, had leaped the wall of the garden, and were within a few
yards of the well.  For Wallace to descend now was impossible.  "That
tree!" whispered Marion, pointing to an oak-tree near which they stood.
As she spoke, she slid from his arms, and along with the venerable
Halbert, who had seized her hand, disappeared amid the adjoining
thicket.  The two servants fled also.

Wallace, finding himself alone, the next instant, like one of his
native eagles, was looking down from the towering top of the wood upon
his enemies.  They passed beneath him, denouncing vengeance upon the
assassin of Arthur Heselrigge!  One, who by the brightness of his armor
seemed to be their leader, stopped under the tree, and complained he
had so sprained his ankle in leaping the wall, he must wait a few
minutes to recover himself.  Several soldiers drew toward him; but he
ordered them to pursue their duty, search the house, and bring Wallace,
dead or alive, before him.

They obeyed; but others, who had gained admittance to the tower through
the now forced gates, soon ran to him with information that the
murderer could nowhere be found.

"But here is a gay ladie," cried one; "perhaps she can tell of his
hiding-place." And at moment Marion, with Halbert, appeared amongst a
band of men.  The lighted torches which the soldiers held, shone full
on her face.  Though pale as monumental marble, the exquisite beauty of
her features, and the calm dignity which commanded from her eyes, awed
the officer into respect and admiration.

"Soldiers, stand back!" cried he, advancing to Lady Wallace.  "Fear
not, madam."  As the words passed his lips, a flight of arrows flew
into the bosom of the tree.  A piercing shriek from Marion was her only
answer.  "Hah! my lady's falcon!" cried Halbert alarmed, doubly, for
the fate of his master.  A sudden agitation of the branches having
excited an indefinite suspicion in a body of archers who stood near,
with one impulse they had discharged their arrows to the spot.
Halbert's ready excuse, both for the disturbance in the tree and his
lady's shriek, was prompted and warranted true by the appearance of a
large bird, which the rushing of the arrows had frighted from her nest;
she rose suddenly from amongst the branches, and soared away, far to
the east, with loud screams.

All being again still, Marion hoped that her husband had escaped any
serious injury from the arrows; and turning with recovered composure to
the officer, heard him, with a glow of comfort, reprimand his men for
daring to draw their bows without his orders.  Then addressing her, "I
beg your pardon, madam," said he, "both for the alarm these hot-headed
men have occasioned you, and for the violence they have committed in
forcing one of your sex and beauty before me.  Had I expected to have
found a lady here, I should have issued orders to have prevented this
outrage; but I am sent hither in quest of Sir William Wallace, who, by
a mortal attack made on the person of the Governor of Lanark's nephew,
has forfeited his life.  The scabbard of his sword, found beside the
murdered Heselrigge, is an undeniable proof of his guilt.  Direct us to
find him, and not only your release, but the favor of the English
monarch will await your allegiance."

"I am Sir William Wallace's wife," returned the gentle Marion, in a
firm tone; "and by what authority you seek him thus, and presume to
call him guilty, I cannot understand."

"By the authority of the laws, madam, which he has violated."

"What laws?" rejoined she; "Sir William Wallace acknowledges none but
those of God and his country.  Neither of these has he transgressed."

The officer replied, "This night he assassinated Arthur Heselrigge in
the streets of Lanark; and that condemns him, by the last declaration
of King Edward: Whatever Scot maltreats any one of the English
soldiers, or civil officers garrisoned in the towns of Scotland, shall
thereby forfeit his life, as the penalty of his crime."

"A tyrant's law, sir, to which no freeborn Scot will submit!  But even
were it allowed by my countrymen, in this case it can have no hold on
my husband.  That he is a Scot, he glories: and not that he maltreated
any Englishman in the streets of Lanark, do I glory; but because, when
he saw two defenseless men borne down by a band of armed soldiers, he
exposed his unshielded breast in their defense; one of the two died,
covered with wounds.  That the governor's nephew also fell, was a just
retribution for his heading so unequal a contest, and no crime in Sir
William Wallace; for he slew him to preserve a feeble old man, who had
a hundred English swords leveled at his life."

The officer paused for a moment, and then, ordering his soldiers to
fall further back, when they were at a sufficient distance, he offered
to take Lady Wallace's hand.  She withstood his motion with a reserved
air, and said, "Speak, sir, what you would say, or allow me to retire."

"I mean not to offend you, noble lady," continued he; "had I a wife
lovely as yourself, and I in like circumstances, I hope in the like
manner would defend my life and honor.  I knew not the particulars of
the affair in which Arthur Heselrigge fell, till I heard it from your
lips.  I can easily credit them, for I know his unmanly character.
Wallace is a Scot, and acted in Scotland as Gilbert Hambledon would
have done in England, were it possible for any vile foreigner to there
put his foot upon the neck of a countryman of mine. Wherever you have
concealed your husband, let it be a distant asylum.  At present no
tract within the jurisdiction of Lanark will be left unsearched by the
governor's indefatigable revenge."

Lady Wallace, overcome with gratitude at this generous speech of the
English officer, uttered some inarticulate words, expressive more in
sound than clearness, of her grateful feelings.  Hambledon continued,
"I will use my influence with Heselrigge, to prevent the interior of
your house from being disturbed again; but it being in the course of
military operations, I cannot free you from the disagreeable ceremony
of a guard being placed to-morrow morning round the domains.  This I
know will be done to intercept Sir William Wallace should he attempt to
return."

"Oh! That he were indeed far distant!" thought the anxious Marion.

The officer then added, "However, you shall be relieved of my
detachment directly."  And as he spoke, he waved his sword to them who
had seized the harper.  They advanced, still holding their prisoner.
He ordered them to commit the man to him, and to sound.  The trumpeter
obeyed; and in a few seconds the whole detachment were assembled before
their commander.

"Soldiers!" cried he, "Sir William Wallace has escaped our hands.
Mount your horses, that we may return to Lanark, and search the other
side of the town.  Lead forth, and I will follow."

The troops obeyed, and falling back through the open gates, left Sir
Gilbert Hambledon alone with Lady Wallace and the wondering Halbert.
The brave young man took the now no longer withdrawn hand of the
grateful Marion, who had stood trembling while so many of her husband's
mortal enemies were assembled under the place of his concealment.

"Noble Englishman," said she, as the last body of soldiers passed from
her sight, "I cannot enough thank you for this generous conduct; but
should you or yours be ever in the like extremity with my beloved
Wallace (and in these tyrannous times, what brave spirit can answer for
its continued safety?) may the ear which has heard you this night, at
that hour repay my gratitude!"

"Sweet lady," answered Hambledon, "I thank you for your prayer.  God is
indeed the benefactor of a true soldier; and though I serve my king,
and obey my commanders, yet it is only to the Lord of battles that I
look for a sure reward.  And whether he pay me here with victories and
honors, or take my soul through a rent in my breast, to receive my
laurel in paradise, it is all one to Gilbert Hambledon.  But the night
is cold: I must see you safe within your own doors, and then, lady,
farewell!"

Lady Wallace yielded to the impulse of his hand, and with redoubled
haste, as she heard another rustling in the tree above her head.
Hambledon did not notice it; but desiring Halbert to follow, in a few
minutes disappeared with the agitated Marion into the house.

Wallace, whose spirit could ill brook the sight of his domains filled
with hostile troops, and the wife of his bosom brought a prisoner
before their commander, would instantly have braved all dangers, and
have leaped down amongst them; but at the instant he placed his foot on
a lower bough to make a spring, the courteous address of Hambledon to
his wife had made him hesitate.  He listened to the replies of his
Marion with exultation; and when the Englishman ordered his men to
withdraw, and delivered himself so generously respecting the safety of
the man he came to seize, Wallace could hardly prevent a brave
confidence in such virtue from compelling him to come from his
concealment, and thank his noble enemy on the spot.  But in
consideration that such disclosure would put the military duty and the
generous nature of the officer at variance, he desisted, with such an
agitation of spirits that the boughs had again shaken under him, and
reawakened the alarm of his trembling wife.

"Omnipotent virtue!" exclaimed Wallace to himself; "if it were possible
that thy generous spirit could animate the breast of an invading
conqueror, how soon would the vanquished cease to forget their former
freedom, and learn to love their vassalage!  This man's nobleness, how
soon has it quenched the flame of vengeance with which, when I ascended
this tree, I prayed for the extirpation of every follower of Edward!"

"Sir William! my master!" cried a well-known voice, in a suppressed
tone, as if still fearful of being overheard.  It was Halbert's.
"Speak, my dear lord; are you safe?"

"In heart and body!" returned Wallace, sliding from the tree, and
leaping on the ground.  "One only of the arrows touched me; and that
merely striking my bugle, fell back amongst the leaves.  I must now
hasten to the dearest, the noblest of women!"

Halbert begged him to stay till they should hear the retreat from the
English trumpets.  "Till their troops are out of sight," added he, "I
cannot believe you safe."

"Hark!" cried Wallace, "the horses are now descending the craig.  That
must satisfy you, honest Halbert."  With these words he flew across the
grass, and entering the house, met the returning Marion, who had just
bade farewell to Hambledon.  She rushed into his arms, and with the
excess of a disturbed and uncertain joy, fainted on his neck.  Her
gentle spirit had been too powerfully excited by the preceding scenes.
Unaccustomed to tumult of any king, and nursed in the bosom of fondness
till now, no blast had blown on her tender form, no harshness had ever
ruffled the blissful serenity of her mind.  What then was the shock of
this evening's violence!  Her husband pursued as a murderer; herself
exposed to the midnight air, and dragged by the hands of merciless
soldiers to betray the man she loved!  All these scenes were new to
her; and though a kind of preternatural strength had supported her
over, when she fell once more into her husband's extended arms, she
seemed there to have found again her shelter, and the pillow whereon
her harassed soul might repose.

"My life! My best treasure! Preserver of thy Wallace! Look on him!"
exclaimed he; "bless him with a smile from those dear eyes."

His voice, his caresses, soon restored her to sensibility and
recollection.  She wept on his breast, and with love's own eloquence,
thanked Heaven that he had escaped the search and the arrows of his
enemies.

"But my dear lady," interrupted Halbert, "remember my master must not
stay here.  You know the English commander said he must fly far away.
Nay, spies may even now be lurking to betray him."

"You are right," cried she.  "My Wallace, you must depart.  Should the
guard arrive soon, your flight may be prevented.  You must go now--but,
oh! whither?"

"Not far distant, my love.  In going from thee, I leave behind all that
makes my life precious to me; how then can I go far away?  No! there
are recesses among the Cartlane Craigs, I discovered while hunting, and
which I believe have been visited by no mortal foot but my own.  There
I will be, my Marion, before sunrise; and before it sets, thither you
must send Halbert, to tell me how you fare.  Three notes from thine own
sweet strains of Thusa ha measg na reultan mor,** blown by his pipe,
shall be a sign to me that he is there; and I will come forth to hear
tidings of thee."

**Thusa ha measg na reultan mor, etc., are the beginning words of an
old Gaelic ditty, the English of which runs thus: "Thou who art amid
the stars, move to thy bed with music," etc.-(1809.)

"Ah, my Wallace, let me go with thee!"

"What, dearest!" returned he, "to live amidst rocks and streams! to
expose thy tender self, and thine unborn infant, to all the accidents
of such a lodging!"

"But are not you going to so rough, so dangerous a lodging?" asked she.
"O! would not rocks and streams be Heaven's paradise to me, when
blessed by the presence of my husband?  Ah! let me go!"

"Impossible, my lady," cried Halbert, afraid that the melting heart of
his master would consent: "you are safe here; and your flight would awaken
suspicion in the English, that he had not gone far.  Your ease and
safety are dearer to him than his own life; and most likely by his care
to preserve them, he would be traced, and so fall a ready sacrifice to
the enemy."

"It is true, my Marion; I could not preserve you in the places to which
I go."

"But the hardships you will endure!" cried she; "to sleep on the cold
stones, with no covering but the sky, or the dripping vault of some
dreary cave!  I have not courage to abandon you alone to such cruel
rigors."

"Cease, my beloved!" interrupted he, "cease these groundless alarms.
Neither rocks nor storms have any threats to me.  It is only tender
woman's cares that make man's body delicate.  Before I was thine, my
Marion, I have lain whole nights upon the mountain's brow, counting the
wintery stars, as I impatiently awaited the hunter's horn that was to
recall me to the chase in Glenfinlass.  Alike to Wallace is the couch
of down or the bed of heather; so, best-beloved of my heart, grieve not
at hardships which were once my sport, and will now be my safety."

"Then farewell!  May good angels guard thee!"  Her voice failed; she
put his hand to her lips.

"Courage, my Marion," said he; "remember that Wallace lives but in
thee.  Revive, be happy for my sake; and God, who putteth down the
oppressor, will restore me to thine arms."  She spoke not, but rising
from his breast, clasped her hands together, and looked up with an
expression of fervent prayer; then smiling through a shower of tears,
she waved her hand to him to depart, and instantly disappeared into her
own chamber.

Wallace gazed at the closed door, with his soul in his eyes.  To leave
his Marion thus, to quit her who was the best part of his being, who
seemed the very spring of the life now throbbing in his heart, was a
contention with his fond, fond love, almost too powerful for his
resolution.  Here indeed his brave spirit gave way; and he would have
followed her, and perhaps have determined to await his face at her
side, had not Halbert, reading his mind in his countenance, taken him
by the arm, and drawn him toward the portal.

Wallace soon recovered his better reason, and obeying the friendly
impulse of his servant, accompanied him through the garden, to the
quarter which pointed toward the heights that led to the remotest
recesses of the Clyde.  In their way they approached the well where
Lord Mar lay.  Finding that the earl had not been inquired for, Wallace
deemed his stay to be without peril; and intending to inform him of the
necessity which still impelled his own flight, he called to him, but no
voice answered.  He looked down, and seeing him extended on the bottom
without motion, "I fear," said he, "the earl is dead.  As soon as I am
gone, and you can collect the dispersed servants, send one into the
well to bring him forth; and if he be indeed no more, deposit his body
in my oratory, till you can receive his widow's commands respecting his
remains.  The iron box now in the well is of inestimable value; take it
to Lady Wallace and tell her she must guard it, as she has done my
life; but not to look into it, at the peril of what is yet dearer to
her--my honor."

Halbert promised to adhere to his master's orders; and Wallace, girding
on his sword, and taking his hunting-spear (with which the care of his
venerable domestic had provided him), he pressed the faithful hand that
presented it, and again enjoining him to be watchful of the
tranquillity of his lady, and to send him tidings of her in the
evening, to the cave near the Corie Lynn, he climbed the wall, and was
out of sight in an instant.




Chapter III.

Ellerslie.


Halbert returned to the house; and entering the room softly, into which
Marion had withdrawn, beheld her on her knees before a crucifix; she
was praying for the safety of her husband.

"May he, O gracious Lord!" cried she, "soon return to his home.  But if
I am to see him here no more, oh, may it please thee to grant me to
meet him within thy arms in heaven!"

"Hear her, blessed Son of Mary!" ejaculated the old man.  She looked
round, and rising from her knees, demanded of him, in a kind but
anxious voice, whether he had left her lord in security.

"In the way to it, my lady!" answered Halbert.  He repeated all that
Wallace had said at parting, and then tried to prevail on her to go to
rest.  "Sleep cannot visit my eyes this night, my faithful creature,"
replied she; "my spirit will follow Wallace in his mountain flight.  Go
you to your chamber.  After you have had repose, that will be time
enough to revisit the remains of the poor earl, and to bring them with
the box to the house.  I will take a religious charge of both, for the
sake of the dear intruster."

Halbert persuaded his aldy to lie down on the bed, that her limbs at
least might rest after the fatigue of so harassing a night; and she,
little suspecting that he meant to do otherwise than to sleep also,
kindly wished him repose and retired.

Her maids, during the late terror, had dispersed, and were nowhere to
be found; and the men, too, after their stout resistance at the gates,
had all disappeared; some fled others were sent away prisoners to
Lanark, while the good Hambledon was conversing with their lady.
Halbert, therefore, resigned himself to await with patience the rising
of the sun, when he hoped some of the scared domestics would return; if
not, he determined to go to the cotters who lived in the depths of the
glen, and bring some of them to supply the place of the fugitives; and
a few, with stouter hearts, to guard his lady.

Thus musing, he sat on a stone bench in the hall, watching anxiously
the appearance of that orb, whose setting beams he hoped would light
him back with tidings of William Wallace to comfort the lonely heart of
his Marion.  All seemed at peace.  Nothing was hear but the sighing of
the trees as they waved before the western window, which opened toward
the Lanark hills.  The morning was yet gray, and the fresh air blowing
in rather chilly, Halbert rose to close the wooden shutter; at that
moment, his eyes were arrested by a party of armed men in quick march
down the opposite declivity.  In a few minutes more their heavy steps
sounded in his ears, and he saw the platform before the house filled
with English.  Alarmed at the sight, he was retreating across the
apartment, toward his lady's room, when the great hall door was burst
open by a band of soldiers, who rushed forward and seized him.

"Tell me, dotard!" cried their leader, a man of low stature, with gray
locks, but a fierce countenance, "where is the murderer?  Where is Sir
William Wallace?  Speak, or the torture shall force you."

Halbert shuddered, but it was for his defenseless lady, not for
himself.  "My master," said he, "is far from this."

"Where?"

"I know not."

"Thou shalt be made to know, thou hoary-headed villian!" cried the same
violent interrogator.  "Where is the assassin's wife?  I will confront
ye.  Seek her out."

At that word the soldiers parted right and left, and in a moment
afterward three of them appeared, with shouts, bringing in the
trembling Marion.

"Alas! my lady!" cried Halbert, struggling to approach her, as with
terrified apprehension she looked around her; but they held her fast,
and he saw her led up to the merciless wretch who had given the orders
to have her summoned.

"Woman!" cried he, "I am the Governor of Lanark.  You now stand before
the representative of the great King Edward, and on your allegiance to
him, and on the peril of your life, I command you to answer me three
questions.  Where is Sir William Wallace, the murderer of my nephew?
Who is that old Scot, for whom my nephew was slain?  He and his whole
family shall meet my vengeance!  And tell me where is that box of
treasure which your husband stole from Douglas Castle?  Answer me these
questions on your life."

Lady Wallace remained silent.

"Speak, woman," demanded the governor.  "If fear cannot move you, know
that I can reward as well as avenge.  I will endow you richly, if you
declare the truth.  If you persist to refuse, you die."

"Then I die," replied she, scarcely opening her half-closed eyes, as
she leaned, fainting and motionless, against the soldier who held her.

"What?" cried the governor, stifling his rage, in hopes to gain by
persuasion on a spirit he found threats could not intimidate; "can so
gentle a lady reject the favor of England, large grants in this
country, and perhaps a fine English knight for a husband, when you
might have all for the trifling service of giving up a traitor to his
liege lord, and confessing where his robberies lie concealed?  Speak,
fair dame; give me this information, and the lands of the wounded
chieftain whom Wallace brought here, with the hand of the handsome Sir
Gilbert Hambledon, shall be your reward.  Rich, and a beauty in
Edward's court!  Lady, can you now refuse to purchase all, by declaring
the hiding place of the traitor Wallace?"

"It is easier to die!"

"Fool!" cried Heselrigge, driven from his assumed temper by her steady
denial.  "What? is it easier for these dainty limbs to be hacked to
pieces by my soldiers' axes?  Is it easier for that fair bosom to be
trodden underfoot by my horse's hoofs, and for that beauteous head of
thine to decorate my lance?  Is all this easier than to tell me where
to find a murderer and his gold?"

Lady Wallace shuddered; she stretched her hands to heaven.

"Speak once for all!" cried the enraged governor, drawing his sword; "I
am no waxen-hearted Hambledon, to be cajoled by your beauty.  Declare
where Wallace is concealed, or dread my vengeance."

The horrid steel gleamed across the eyes of the unhappy Marion; unable
to sustain herself, she sunk to the ground.

"Kneel not to me for mercy!" cried the fierce wretch; "I grant none,
unless you confess your husband's hiding-place."

A momentary strength darted from the heart of Lady Wallace to her
voice, "I kneel to Heaven alone, and may it ever preserve my Wallace
from the fangs of Edward and his tyrants!"

"Blasphemous wretch!" cried the infuriated Heselrigge; and in that
moment he plunged his sword into her defenseless breast.  Halbert, who
had all this time been held back by the soldiers, could not believe
that the fierce governor would perpetrate the horrid deed he
threatened; but seeing it done, with a giant's strength and a terrible
cry he burst from the hands that held him, and had thrown himself on
the bleeding Marion, before her murderer could strike his second blow.
However, it fell, and pierced through the neck of the faithful servant
before it reached her heart.  She opened her dying eyes, and seeing who
it was that would have shielded her life, just articulated, "Halbert!
my Wallace--to God--" and with that last unfinished sentence her pure
soul took its flight to regions of eternal piece.

The good old man's heart almost burst when he felt that before--heaving
bosom now motionless; and groaning with grief, and fainting with loss
of blood, he lay senseless on her body.

A terrible stillness was now in the hall.  Not a man spoke; all stood
looking on each other, with a stern horror marking each pale
countenance.  Heselrigge, dropping his blood-stained sword on the
ground, perceived by the behavior of his men that he had gone too far,
and fearful of arousing the indignation of awakened humanity, to some
act against himself, he addressed the soldiers in an unusual accent of
condescension: "My friends," said he, "we will now return to Lanark;
to-morrow you may come back, for I reward your services of this night
with the plunder of Ellerslie."

"May a curse light on him who carries a stick from its grounds!"
exclaimed a veteran, from the further end of the hall.  "Amen!"
murmured all the soldiers, with one consent; and falling back, they
disappeared, one by one, out of the great door, leaving Heselrigge
alone with the soldier, who stood leaning on his sword, looking on the
murdered lady.

"Grimsby, why stand you there?" demanded Heselrigge: "follow me."

"Never," returned the soldier.

"What!" exclaimed the governor, momentarily forgetting his panic, "dare
you speak thus to your commander?  March on before me this instant, or
expect to be treated as a rebel."

"I march at your command no more," replied the veteran, eying him
resolutely: "the moment you perpetrated this bloody deed, you became
unworthy the name of man; and I should disgrace my own manhood, were I
ever again to obey the word of such a monster!"

"Villian!" cried the enraged Heselrigge, "you shall die for this!"

"That may be," answered Grimsby, "by the hands of some tyrant like
yourself; but no brave man, not the royal Edward, would do otherwise
than acquit his soldier for refusing obedience to the murderer of an
innocent woman.  It was not so he treated the wives and daughters of
the slaughtered Saracens when I followed his banners over the fields of
Palestine!"

"Thou canting miscreant!" cried Heselrigge, springing on him suddenly,
and aiming his dagger at his breast.  But the soldier arrested the
weapon, and at the same instant closing upon the assassin, with a turn
of his foot threw him to the ground.  Heselrigge, as he lay prostrate,
seeing his dagger in his adversary's hand, with the most dastardly
promises implored for life.

"Monster!" cried the soldier, "I wold not pollute my honest hands with
such unnatural blood.  Neither, though thy hand has been lifted against
my life, would I willingly take thine.  It is not rebellion against my
commander that actuates me, but hatred of the vilest of murderers.  I
go far from you, or your power; but if you forswear your voluntary
oath, and attempt to seek me out for vengeance, remember it is a
soldier of the cross you pursue, and a dire retribution shall be
demanded by Heaven, at a moment you cannot avoid, and with a horror
commensurate with your crimes."

There was a solemnity and determination in the voice and manner of the
soldier that paralyzed the intimidated soul of the governor; he
trembled violently, and repeating the oath of leaving Grimsby
unmolested, at last obtained his permission to return to Lanark.  The
men, in obedience to the conscience-stricken orders of their commander,
had mounted their horses and were now far out of sight.  Heselrigge's
charger was still in the courtyard; he was hurrying toward it, but the
soldier, with a prudent suspicion, called out, "Stop, sir! you must
walk to Lanark.  The cruel are generally false; I cannot trust your
word, should you have the power to break it.  Leave this horse
here: to-morrow you may send for it, I shall then be far away."

Heselrigge saw that remonstrance would be unavailing; and shaking with
impotent rage, he turned into the path which, after five weary miles,
would lead him once more to his citadel.

For the moment the soldier's manly spirit had dared to deliver its
abhorrence of Lady Wallace's murder, he was aware that his life would
no longer be safe within reach of the machinations of Heselrigge; and
determined, alike by detestation of him and regard for his own
preservation, resolved to take shelter in the mountains, till he could
have an opportunity of going beyond sea to join his king's troops in
the Guienne wars.

Full of these thoughts he returned into the hall.  As he approached the
bleeding form on the floor, he perceived it to move; hoping that
perhaps the unhappy lady might not be dead, he drew near; but, alas! as
he bent to examine, he touched her hand and found it quite cold.  The
blood which had streamed from the now exhausted heart, lay congealed
upon her arms and bosom.  Grimsby shuddered.  Again he saw her move;
but it was not with her own life; the recovering senses of her faithful
servant, as his arms clung around the body, had disturbed the remains
of her who would wake no more.

On seeing that existence yet struggled in one of these blameless
victims, Grimsby did his utmost to revive the old man.  He raised him
from the ground, and poured some strong liquor he had in a flask into a
mouth.  Halbert breathed freer; and his kind surgeon, with the
venerable harper's own plaid, bound up the wound in his neck.  Halbert
opened his eyes.  When he fixed them on the rough features and English
helmet of the soldier, he closed them again with a deep groan.

"My honest Scot," said Grimsby, "trust in me.  I am a man like
yourself; and though a Southron, am no enemy to age and helplessness."

The harper took courage at these words; he again looked at the soldier;
but suddenly recollecting what had passed, he turned his eyes toward
the body of his mistress, on which the beams of the now rising sun were
shining.  He started up, and staggering toward her, would have fallen,
had not Grimsby supported him.  "O what a sight is this!" cried he,
wringing his hands.  "My lady! my lovely lady! see how low she lies who
was once the delight of all eyes, the comforter of all hearts."  The
old man's sobs suffocated him.  The veteran turned away his face, a
tear dropped upon his hand.  "Accursed Heselrigge," ejaculated he, "thy
fate must come!"

"If there be a man's heart in all Scotland, it is not far distant!"
cried Halbert.  "My master lives, and will avenge this murder.  You
weep, soldier; and you will not betray what has now escaped me."

"I have fought in Palestine," returned he, "and a soldier of the cross
betrays none who trust him.  Saint Mary preserve your master and
conduct you safely to him.  We must both hasten hence.  Heselrigge will
surely send in pursuit of me.  He is too vile to forgive the truth I
have spoken to him; and should I fall into his power, death is the best
I could expect at his hands.  Let me assist you to put this poor lady's
remains into some decent place; and then, my honest Scot, we must
separate."

Halbert, at these words, threw himself upon the bosom of his mistress,
and wept with loud lamentations over her.  In vain he attempted to
raise her in his feeble arms.  "I have carried thee scores of times in
thy blooming infancy," cried he; "and now must I bear thee to thy
grave?  I had hoped that my eyes would have been closed by this dear
hand."  As he spoke, he pressed her cold hand to his lips with such
convulsive sobs that the soldier, fearing he would expire in the agony
of his sorrow, took him almost motionless from the dead body, and
exhorted him to suppress such self-destroying grief for the sake of his
master.  Halbert gradually revived; and listening to him, cast a
wistful look on the lifeless Marion.

"There sleeps the pride and hope of Ellerslie, the mother with her
child!  O my master, my widowed master," cried he, "what will comfort
thee!"

Fearing the ill consequence of further delay, the soldier again
interrupted his lamentations with arguments for flight; and Halbert
recollecting the oratory in which Wallace had ordered the body of Lord
Mar to be deposited, named it for that of his dear lady.  Grimsby,
immediately wrapping the beauteous corpse in the white garments which
hung about it, raised it in his arms, and was conducted by Halbert to a
little chapel in the heart of a neighboring cliff.

The still weeping old man removed the altar; and Grimsby, laying the
shrouded Marion upon its rocky platform, covered her with the pall,
which he drew from the holy table, and laid the crucifix upon her
bosom.  Halbert, when his beloved mistress was thus hidden from his
sight, threw himself on his knees beside her, and in the vehement
language of grief offered up a prayer for her departed soul.

"Hear me, righteous Judge of heaven and earth!" cried he; "as thou
didst avenge the blood of innocence shed in Bethlehem, so let the gray
hairs of Heselrigge be brought down in blood to the grave for the
murder of this innocent lady!" Halbert kissed the cross, and rising
from his knees, went weeping out of the chapel, followed by the soldier.

Having closed the door, and carefully locked it, absorbed in meditation
on what would be the agonized transports of his master, when he should
tell him these grievous tidings, Halbert proceeded in silence, till he
and his companion in passing the well were startled by a groan.

"Here is some one in extremity!" cried the soldier.

"Is it possible he lives!" exclaimed Halbert, bending down to the edge
of the well with the same inquiry.

"Yes," feebly answered the earl, "I still exist, but am very faint.  If
all be safe above, I pray remove me into the upward air!"  Halbert
replied that it was indeed necessary he should ascend immediately; and
lowering the rope, told him to tie the iron box to it and then himself.
This done, with some difficulty, and the assistance of the wondering
soldier (who now expected to see the husband of the unfortunate Lady
Wallace emerge to the knowledge of his loss), he at last effected the
earl's release.  For a few seconds the fainting nobleman supported
himself on his countryman's shoulder, while the fresh morning breeze
gradually revived his exhausted frame.  The soldier looked at his gray
locks and furrowed brow, and marveled how such proofs of age could
belong to the man whose resistless valor had discomfited the fierce
determination of Arthus Heselrigge and his myrmidons.  However, his
doubts of the veteran before him being other than the brave Wallace,
were soon satisfied by the earl himself, who asked for a draught of the
water which trickled down the opposite hill; and while Halbert went to
bring it, Lord Mar raised his eyes to inquire for Sir William and Lady
Marion.  He started when he saw English armor on the man he would have
accosted, and rising suddenly from the stone on which he sat, demanded,
in a stern voice, "Who art thou?"

"An Englishman," answered the soldier; "one who does not, like the
monster Heselrigge, disgrace the name.  I would assist you, noble
Wallace, to fly this spot.  After that, I shall seek refuge abroad; and
there, on the fields of Guienne, demonstrate my fidelity to my king."

Mar looked at him steadily.  "You mistake; I am not Sir William
Wallace."

At that moment Halbert came up with the water.  The earl drank it,
though now, from the impulse surprise had given to his blood, he did
not require its efficacy; and turning to the venerable bearer, he asked
of him whether his master were safe.

"I trust he is," replied the old man; "but you, my lord, must hasten
hence.  A foul murder has been committed here, since you left it."

"But where is Lady Wallace?" asked the earl; "if there be such danger
we must not leave her to meet it."

"She will never meet danger more!" cried the old man, clasping his
hand; "she is in the bosom of the Virgin; and no second assassin's
steel can reach her there."

"What!" exclaimed the earl, hardly articulate with horror; "is Lady
Wallace murdered?" Halbert answered only by his tears.

"Yes," said the soldier; "and detestation of so unmanly an outrage
provoked me to desert his standard.  But no time must now be lost in
unavailing lamentation.  Heselrigge will return; and if we also would
not be sacrificed to his rage, we must hence immediately."

The earl, struck dumb at this recital, gave the soldier time to recount
the particulars.  When he had finished, Lord Mar saw the necessity for
instant flight, and ordered horses to be brought from the stables.
Though he had fainted in the well, the present shock gave such tension
to his nerves, that he found, in spite of his wound, he could now ride
without difficulty.

Halbert went as commanded, and returned with two horses.  Having
amongst rocks and glens to go, he did not bring one for himself; and
begging the good soldier might attend the earl to Bothwell, he added,
"He will guard you and this box, which Sir William Wallace holds as his
life.  What it contains I know not: and none, he says, may dare to
search into.  But you will take care of it for his sake, till more
peaceful times allow him to reclaim his own!"

"Fatal box!" cried the soldier, regarding it with an abhorrent eye,
"that was the leading cause which brought Heselrigge to Ellerslie."

"How?" inquired the earl.  Grimsby then briefly related, that
immediately after the return to Lanark of the detachment sent to
Ellerslie, under the English garrison in Douglas, and told the governor
that Sir William Wallace had that evening taken a quantity of treasure
from the castle.  His report was, that the English soldiers who stood
near the Scottish knight when he mounted at the castle gate, saw a long
iron coffer under his arm, but not suspecting its having belonged to
Douglas, they thought not of it, till they overheard Sir John Monteith,
as he passed through one of the galleries, muttering something about
gold and a box.  To intercept the robber amongst his native glens, the
soldiers deemed impracticable, and therefore their captain came
immediately to lay the information before the Governor of Lanark.  As
the scabbard found in the affray with young Arthur had betrayed the
victor to have been Sir William Wallace, this intimation of his having
been also the instrument of wrestling from the grasp of Heselrigge
perhaps the most valuable spoil in Douglas exasperated him to the most
vindictive excess.  Inflamed with the double furies of revenge and
avarice, he ordered out a new troop, and placing himself at its head,
took the way to Ellerslie.  One of the servants, whom some of
Hambledon's men had seized for the sake of information, on being
threatened with the torture, confessed to Heselrigge, that not only Sir
William Wallace was in the house when it was attacked, but that the
person whom he had rescued in the streets of Lanark, and who proved to
be a wealthy nobleman, was there also.  This whetted the eagerness of
the governor to reach Ellerslie; and expecting to get a rich booty,
without the most distant idea of the horrors he was going to
perpetrate, a large detachment of men followed him.

"To extort money from you, my lord," continued the soldier, "and to
obtain that fatal coffer, were his main objects; but disappointed in
his darling passion of avarice, he forgot he was a man, and the blood
of innocence glutted his barbarous vengeance."

"Hateful gold!" cried Lord Mar, spurning the box with his foot; "it
cannot be for itself the noble Wallace so greatly prizes it; it must be
a trust."

"I believe it is," returned Halbert, "for he enjoined my lady to
preserve it for the sake of his honor.  Take care of it, then, my lord,
for the same sacred reason."

The Englishman made no objection to accompany the earl; and by a
suggestion of his own, Halbert brought him a Scottish bonnet and cloak
from the house.  While he put them on, the earl observed that the
harper held a drawn and blood-stained sword in his hand, on which he
steadfastly gazed.  "Whence came that forried weapon?" cried Lord Mar.

"It is my lady's blood," replied Halbert, still looking on it.  "I
found it where she lay, in the hall, and I will carry it to my master.
Was not every drop of her blood dear to him? and here are many."  As
the old man spoke he bent his head on the sword, and groaned heavily.

"England shall hear more of this!" cried Mar, as he threw himself
across the horse.  "Give me that fatal box; I will buckle it to my
saddle-bow.  Inadequate will be my utmost care of it, to repay the vast
sorrow its preservation and mine have brought upon the head of my
deliverer."

The Englishman in silence mounted his horse, and Halbert opened a
back-gate that led to the hills which lay between Ellerslie and
Bothwell Castle.  Lord Mar took a golden-trophied bugle from his
breast: "Give this to your master, and tell him that by whatever hands
he sends it, the sight of it shall always command the services of
Donald Mar.  I go to Bothwell, in expectation that he will join me
there.  In making it his home he will render me happy, for my
friendship is now bound to him by bonds which only death can sever."

Halbert took the horn, and promising faithfully to repeat the earl's
message, prayed God to bless him and the honest soldier.  A rocky
promontory soon excluded them from his sight, and in a few minutes more
even the sound of their horses' hoofs was lost on the soft herbage of
the winding dell.

"Now I am alone in this once happy spot.  Not a voice, not a sound.
Oh, Wallace!" cried he, throwing up his venerable arms, "thy house is
left unto thee desolate, and I am to be the fatal messenger."  With the
last words he struck into a deep ravine which led to the remotest
solitudes of the glen, and pursued his way in dreadful silence.  No
human face of Scot or English cheered or scared him as he passed along.
The tumult had so alarmed the poor cottagers, that with one accord
they fled to their kindred on the hills, amid those fastnesses of
nature, to await tidings from the valley, of when all should be still,
and they might return in peace.  Halbert looked to the right and to the
left; no smoke, curling its gray mist from behind the intersecting
rocks, reminded him of the gladsome morning hour, or invited him to
take a moment's rest from his grievous journey.  All was lonely and
comfortless; and sighing bitterly over the wide devastation, he
concealed the fatal sword and the horn under his cloak, and with a
staff which he broke from a withered tree, took his way down the
winding craigs.  Many a pointed flint pierced his aged feet, while
exploring the almost trackless paths, which by their direction he hoped
would lead him at length to the deep caves of Corie Lynn.




Chapter IV.

Corie Lynn.


After having traversed many a weary rood of, to him, before untrodden
ground, the venerable minstrel of the house of Wallace, exhausted by
fatigue, sat down on the declivity of a steep craig.  The burning beams
of the midday sun now beat upon the rocks, but the overshadowing
foliage afforded him shelter, and a few berries from the brambles,
which knit themselves over the path he had yet to explore, with a
draught of water from a friendly burn, offered themselves to revive his
enfeebled limbs.  Insufficient as they appeared, he took them, blessing
Heaven for sending even these, and strengthened by half an hour's rest,
again he grasped his staff to pursue his way.

After breaking a passage, through the entangled shrubs that grew across
the only possible footing in this solitary wilderness, he went along
the side of the expanding stream, which at every turning of the rocks
increased in depth and violence.  The rills from above, and other
mountain brooks, pouring from abrupt falls down the craigs, covered him
with spray, and intercepted his passage.  Finding it impracticable to
proceed through the rushing torrent of a cataract, whose distant
roarings might have intimidated even a younger adventurer, he turned
from its tumbling waters which burst upon his sight, and crept on his
hands and knees up the opposite acclivity, catching by the fern and
other weeds to stay him from falling back into the flood below.
Prodigious craggy heights towered above his head as he ascended; while
the rolling clouds which canopied their summits seemed descending to
wrap him in their "fleecy skirts;" or the projecting rocks bending over
the waters of the glen, left him only a narrow shelf in the cliff,
along which he crept till it brought him to the mouth of a cavern.

He must either enter it or return the way he came, or attempt the
descent of overhanging precipices, which nothing could surmount but the
pinions of their native birds.  Above him was the mountain.  Retread
his footsteps until he had seen his beloved master, he was resolved not
to do--to perish in these glens would be more tolerable to him; for
while he moved forward, hope, even in the arms of death, would cheer
him with the whisper that he was in the path of duty.  He therefore
entered the cavity, and passing on, soon perceived an aperture, through
which emerging on the other side, he found himself again on the margin
of the river.  Having attained a wider bed, it left him a still
narrower causeway to perform the remainder of his journey.

Huge masses of rock, canopied with a thick umbrage of firs, beech, and
weeping-birch, closed over the glen and almost excluded the light of
day.  But more anxious, as he calculated by the increased rapidity of
the stream he must now be approaching the great fall near his master's
concealment, Halbert redoubled his speed.  But an unlooked-for obstacle
baffled his progress.  A growing gloom he had not observed in the sky
excluded valley, having entirely overspread the heavens, at this moment
suddenly discharged itself, amidst peals of thunder, in heavy floods of
rain upon his head.

Fearful of being overwhelmed by the streams, which now on all sides
crossed his path, he kept upon the edge of the river, to be as far as
possible from the influence of their violence.  And thus he proceeded,
slowly and with trepidation, through numerous defiles, and under the
plunge of many a mountain-torrent, till the augmented storm of a world
of waters, dashing from side to side, and boiling up with the noise and
fury of the contending elements above, told him he was indeed not far
from the fall of Corie Lynn.

The spray was spread in so thick a mist over the glen, he knew not how
to advance.  A step further might be on the firm earth, but more
probably illusive, and dash him into the roaring Lynn, where he would
be ingulfed at once in its furious whirlpool.  He paused and looked
around.  The rain had ceased, but the thunder still rolled at a
distance and echoed tremendously from the surrounding rocks.  Halbert
shook his gray locks, streaming with wet, and looked toward the sun,
now gliding with its last rays the vast sheets of falling water.

"This is thine hour, my master!" exclaimed the old man; "and surely I
am too near the Lynn to be far from thee!"

With these words he raised the pipe that hung at his breast, and blew
three strains of the appointed air.  In former days it used to call
from her bower that "fair star of evening," the beauteous Marion, now
departed for ever into her native heaven.  The notes trembled as his
agitated breath breathed them into the instrument; but feeble as they
were, and though the roar of the cataract might have prevented their
reaching a less attentive era than that of Wallace, yet he sprung from
the innermost recess under the fall, and dashing through its rushing
waters, the next instant was at the side of Halbert.

"Faithful creature!" cried he, catching him in his arms, which all the
joy of that moment which ends the anxious wish to learn tidings of what
is dearest in the world, "how fares my Marion?"

"I am weary," cried the heart-stricken old man; "take me within your
sanctuary, and I will tell you all."

Wallace perceived that his time-worn servant was indeed exhausted; and
knowing the toils and hazards of the perilous track he must have passed
over in his way to his fearful solitude, also remembering how, as he
sat in his shelter, he had himself dreaded the effects of the storm
upon so aged a traveler, he no longer wondered at the dispirited tone
of his greeting, and readily accounted for the pale countenance and
tremulous step which at first had excited his alarm.

Giving the old man his hand, he led him with caution to the brink of
the Lynn; and then, folding him in his arms, dashed with him through
the tumbling water into the cavern he had chosen for his asylum.
Halbert sunk against the rocky side, and putting forth his hand to
catch some of the water as it fell, drew a few drops to his parched
lips, and swallowed them.  After this light refreshment, he breathed a
little and turned his eyes upon his anxious master.

"Are you sufficiently recovered, Halbert, to tell me how you left my
dearest Marion."

Halbert dreaded to see the animated light which now cheered him from
the eyes of his master, overclouded with the Cimmerian horrors his
story must unfold; he evaded a direct reply; "I saw your guest in
safety; I saw him and the iron box on their way to Bothwell?"

"What!" inquired Wallace, "were we mistaken? was not the earl dead when
we looked into the well?" Halbert replied in the negative, and was
proceeding with a circumstantial account of his recovery and his
departure when Wallace interrupted him.

"But what of my wife, Halbert? why tell me of others before of her?
She whose safety and remembrance are now my sole comfort!"

"Oh, my dear lord!" cried Halbert, throwing himself on his knees in a
paroxysm of mental agony, "she remembers you where best her prayers can
be heard.  She kneels for her beloved Wallace, before the throne of
God!"

"Halbert!" cried Sir William, in a low and fearful voice, "what would
you say?  My Marion--speak! tell me in one word, she lives!"

"In heaven!"

At this confirmation of a sudden terror, imbibed from the ambiguous
words of Halbert, and which his fond heart would not allow him to
acknowledge to himself.  Wallace covered his face with his hands and
fell with a deep groan against the side of the cavern.  The horrid idea
of premature maternal pains, occasioned by anguish for him; of her
consequent death, involving perhaps that of her infant, struck him to
the soul; a mist seemed passing over his eyes; life was receding; and
gladly did he believe he felt his spirit on the eve of joining hers.

In having declared that the idol of his master's heart no longer
existed for him in this world, Halbert thought he had revealed the
worst, and he went on.  "Her latest breath was sent in prayer for you.
'My Wallace' were the last words her angel spirit uttered as it issued
from her bleeding wounds."

The cry that burst from the heart of Wallace, as he started on his feet
at this horrible disclosure, seemed to pierce through all the recessed
of the glen; and with an instantaneous and dismal return was re-echoed
from rock to rock.  Halbert threw his arms round his master's knees.
The frantic blaze of his eyes struck him with affright.  "Hear me, my
lord; for the sake of your wife, now an angel hovering near you, hear
what I have to say."

Wallace looked around with a wild countenance.  "My Marion near me!
Blessed spirit!  Oh, my murdered wife! my unborn babe!  Who made those
wounds?" cried he, catching Halbert's arm with a tremendous though
unconscious grasp; "tell me who had the heart to aim a blow at that
angel's life?"

"The Governor of Lanark," replied Halbert.

"How? for what?" demanded Wallace, with the terrific glare of madness
shooting from his eyes.  "My wife! my wife! what had she done?"

"He came at the head of a band of ruffians, and seizing my lady,
commanded her on the peril of her life, to declare where you and the
Earl of Mar and the box of treasure were concealed.  My lady persisted
in refusing him information, and in a deadly rage he plunged his sword
into her breast."  Wallace clinched his hands over his face, and
Halbert went on.  "Before he aimed a second blow, I had broken from the
men who held me, and thrown myself on her bosom; but all could not save
her; the villain's sword had penetrated her heart!"

"Great God!" exclaimed Wallace, "dost thou hear this murder?" His hands
were stretched toward heaven; then falling on his knees, with his eyes
fixed.  "Give me power, Almighty Judge!" cried he, "to assert thy
justice!  Let me avenge this angel's blood, and then take me to thy
mercy!"

"My gracious master," cried Halbert, seeing him rise with a stern
composure, "here is the fatal sword; the blood on it is sacred, and I
brought it to you."

Wallace took it in his hand.  He gazed at it, touched it, and kissed it
frantically.  The blade was scarcely yet dry, and the ensanguined hue
came off upon the pressure.  "Marion! Marion!" cried he, "is it thine?
Does not thy blood stain my lip?"  He paused for a moment, leaning his
burning forehead against the fatal blade; then looking up with a
terrific smile.  "Beloved of my soul! never shall this sword leave my
hand till it has drunk the life-blood of thy murderer."

"What is it you intend, my lord?" cried Halbert, viewing with increased
alarm the resolute ferocity which now, blazing from every part of his
countenance, seemed to dilate his figure with more than mortal daring.
"What can you do?  Your single arm-"

"I am not single-God is with me.  I am his avenger.  Now tremble,
tyranny!  I come to hurl thee down!" At the word he sprung from the
cavern's mouth, and had already reached the topmost cliff when the
piteous cries of Halbert penetrated his ear; they recalled him to
recollection, and returning to his servant, he tried to soothe his
fear, and spoke in a composed though determined tone.  "I will lead you
from this solitude to the mountains, where the shepherds of Ellerslie
are tending their flocks.  With them you will find a refuge, till you
have strength to reach Bothwell Castle.  Lord Mar will protect you for
my sake."

Halbert now remembered the bugle, and putting it into the master's
hand, with its accompanying message, asked for some testimony in
return, that the earl might know that he had delivered it safely.
"Even a lock of your precious hair, my beloved master, will be
sufficient."

"Thou shalt have it, severed from my head by this accurse steel,"
answered Wallace, taking off his bonnet, and letting his amber locks
fall in tresses on his shoulders.  Halbert burst into a fresh flood of
tears, for he remembered how often it had been the delight of Marion to
comb these bright tresses and to twist them round he ivory fingers.
Wallace looked up as the old man's sobs became audible, and read his
thoughts:  "It will never be again, Halbert," cried he, and with a firm
grasp of the sword he cut off a large handful of his hair.

"Marion, thy blood hath marked it!" exclaimed he; "and every hair on my
head shall be dyed of the same hue, before this sword is sheathed upon
thy murderers.  Here, Halbert," continued he, knotting it together,
"take this to the Earl of Mar; it is all, most likely, he will ever see
again of William Wallace.  Should I fall, tell him to look on that, and
in my wrongs read the future miseries of Scotland, and remember that
God armoreth the patriot's hand.  Let him set on that conviction and
Scotland may yet be free."

Halbert placed the lock in his bosom, but again repeated his
entreaties, that his master would accompany him to Bothwell Castle.  He
urged the consolation he would meet from the good earl's friendship.

"If he indeed regard me," returned Wallace, "for my sake let him
cherish you.  My consolations must come from a higher hand; I go where
it directs.  If I live, you shall see me again; but twilight
approaches--we must away.  The sun must not rise again upon Heselrigge."
Halbert now followed the rapid steps of Wallace, who, assisting the
feeble limbs of his faithful servant, drew him up the precipitous side
of the Lynn,** and then leaping from rock to rock, awaited with
impatience the slower advances of the poor old harper, as he crept
round a circuit of overhanging cliffs, to join him on the summit of the
craigs.

**The cavern which sheltered Sir William Wallace, near Corie Lynn, is
yet revered by the people.

Together they struck into the most inaccessible defiles of the
mountains, and proceeded, till on discerning smoke whitening with its
ascending curls the black sides of the impending rocks, Wallace saw
himself near the objects of his search.  He sprung on a high cliff
projecting over this mountain-valley, and blowing his bugle with a few
notes of the well-known pibroch of Lanarkshire, was answered by the
reverberations of a thousand echoes.

At the loved sounds which had not dared to visit their ears since the
Scottish standard was lowered to Edward, the hills seemed teeming with
life.  Men rushed from their fastnesses, and women with their babes
eagerly followed to see whence sprung a summons so dear to every
Scottish heart.  Wallace stood on the cliff, like the newly-aroused
genius of his country; his long plaid floated afar, and his glittering
hair streaming on the blast, seemed to mingle with the golden fires
which shot from the heavens.  Wallace raised his eyes--a clash as of the
tumult of contending armies filled the sky, and flames, and flashing
steel, and the horrid red of battle, streamed from the clouds upon the
hills.**

**The late Duke of Gordon exhibited a similar scene to Prince Leopold,
when his royal highness visited Gordon Castle, his "hills reeming with
life."-(1830.)

"Scotsmen!" cried Wallace, waving the fatal sword, which blazed in the
glare of these northern lights like a flaming brand, "behold how the
heavens cry aloud to you!  I come, in the midst of their fires, to call
you to vengeance.  I come in the name of all ye hold dear, of the wives
of you bosoms, and the children in their arms, to tell you the poniard
of England is unsheathed-innocence and age and infancy fall before it.
With this sword, last night, did Heselrigge, the English tyrant of
Lanark, break into my house, and murder my wife!"

The shriek of horror that burst from every mouth, interrupted Wallace.
"Vengeance! vengeance!" was the cry of the men, while tumultuous
lamentations for the "sweet Lady of Ellerslie," filled the air from the
women.

Wallace sprung from the cliff into the midst of his brave countrymen.
"Follow me, then, to strike the mortal blow!"

"Lead on!" cried a vigorous old man. "I drew this stout claymore last in
the battle of Largs.** Life and Alexander was then the word of victory:
now, ye accursed Southrons, ye shall meet the slogan* [* Slogan, (so the
war-word was termed.-(1809.)] of Death and Lady Marion."

**In the battle of Largs, Sir Malcolm Wallace, the father of Wallace,
fell gloriously fighting against the Danes.-(1830.)

"Death and Lady Marion!" was echoed with shouts from mouth to mouth.
Every sword was drawn; and those hardy peasants who owned none, seizing
the instruments of pasturage, armed themselves with wolf-spears,
pickaxes, forks, and scythes.

Sixty resolute men now ranged themselves around their chief.  Wallace,
whose widowed heart turned icy cold at the dreadful slogan of his
Marion's name, more fiercely grasped his sword, and murmured to
himself.  "From this day may Scotland date her liberty, or Wallace
return no more!  My faithful friends," cried he, turning to his men,
and placing his plumed bonnet on his head, "let the spirits of your
fathers inspire you souls; ye go to assert that freedom for which they
died.  Before the moon sets, the tyrant of Lanark must fall in blood."

"Death and Lady Marion!" was the pealing answer that echoed from the
hills.

Wallace again sprung on the cliffs.  His brave peasants followed him;
and taking their rapid march by a near cut through a hitherto
unexplored defile of the Cartlane Craigs, leaping chasms, and climbing
perpendicular rocks, they suffered no obstacles to impede their steps,
while thus rushing onward like lions to their prey.




Chapter V.

Lanark Castle.


The women, and the men who age withheld from so desperate an
enterprise, now thronged around Halbert, to ask a circumstantial
account of the disaster which had filled all with so much horror.

Many tears followed his recital; not one of his auditors was an
indifferent listener; all had individually or in persons dear to them,
partaken of the tender Marion's benevolence.  Their sick beds had been
comforted by her charity; her voice had often administered consolation
to their sorrows; her hand had smoothed their pillows, and placed the
crucifix before their dying eyes.  Some had recovered to bless her, and
some had departed to record her virtues in heaven.

"Ah! is she gone?" cried a young woman, raising her face, covered with
tears, from the bosom of her infant; "is the loveliest lady that ever
the sun shone upon, cold in the grave?  Alas, for me! she it was that
gave me the roof under which my baby was born; she it was who, when the
Southron soldiers slew my father, and drove us from our home in
Ayrshire, gave to my old mother, and my then wounded husband, our
cottage by the burnside.  Ah! well can I spare him now to avenge her
murder."

The night being far advanced, Halbert retired, at the invitation of
this young woman, to repose on the heather-bed of her husband who was
now absent with Wallace.  The rest of the peasantry withdrew to their
coverts, while she and some other women, whose anxieties would not
allow them to sleep, sat at the cavern's mouth watching the slowly
moving hours.

The objects of their fond and fervent prayers, Wallace and his little
army, were rapidly pursuing their march.  It was midnight--all was
silent as they hurried through the glen, as they ascended with flying
footsteps the steep acclivities that led to the cliffs which overhung
the vale of Ellerslie.  Wallace must pass along their brow.  Beneath
was the tomb of his sacrificed Marion!  He rushed forward to snatch one
look, even of the roof which shrouded her beloved remains.

But in the moment before he mounted the intervening height, a soldier
in English armor crossed the path, and was seized by his men.  One of
them would have cut him down, but Wallace turned away the weapon.
"Hold, Scot!" cried he, "you are not a Southron, to strike the
defenseless.  The man has no sword."

The reflection on their enemy which this plea of mercy contained
reconciled the impetuous Scots to the clemency of their leader.  The
rescued man, joyfully recognizing the voice of Wallace, exclaimed, "It
is my lord!  It is Sir William Wallace that has saved my life a second
time!"

"Who are you?" asked Wallace; "that helmet can cover no friend of mine."

"I am your servant Dugald," returned the man; "he whom your brave arm
saved from the battle-ax of Arthur Heselrigge."

"I cannot ask you how you came by that armor; but if you be yet a Scot
throw it off and follow me."

"Not to Ellerslie, my lord," cried he; "it has been plundered and
burned to the ground by the Governor of Lanark."

"Then," exclaimed Wallace, striking his breast, "are the remains of my
beloved Marion forever ravished from my eyes?  Insatiate monster!"

"He is Scotland's curse," cried the veteran of Largs.  "Forward, my
lord, in mercy to your country's groans!"

Wallace had now mounted the craig which overlooked Ellerslie.  His once
happy home had disappeared, and all beneath lay a heap of smoking
ashes.  He hastened from the sight, and directing the point of his
sword with a forceful action toward Lanark, re-echoed with supernatural
strength, "Forward!"

With the rapidity of lightning his little host flew over the hills,
reached the cliffs which divided them from the town, and leaped down
before the outward trench of the castle of Lanark.  In a moment Wallace
sprung so feeble a barrier; and with a shout of death, in which the
tremendous slogan of his men now joined, he rushed upon the guard that
held the northern gate.

Here slept the governor.  These opponents being slain by the first
sweep of the Scottish swords, Wallace hastened onward, winged with
twofold retribution.  The noise of battle was behind him; for the
shouts of his men had aroused the garrison and drawn its soldiers,
half-naked, to the spot.  He reached the door of the governor.  The
sentinel who stood there flew before the terrible warrior that
presented himself.  All the mighty vengeance of Wallace blazed in his
face and seemed to surround his figure with a terrible splendor.  With
one stroke of his foot he drove the door from its hinges, and rushed
into the room.

What a sight for the now awakened and guilty Heselrigge!  It was the
husband of the defenseless woman he had murdered come in the power of
justice, with uplifted arm and vengeance in his eyes?  With a terrific
scream of despair, and an outcry for the mercy he dared not expect, he
fell back into the bed and sought an unavailing shield beneath its
folds.

"Marion! Marion!" cried Wallace, as he threw himself toward the bed and
buried the sword, yet red with her blood, through the coverlid, deep
into the heart of her murderer.  A fiend-like yell from the slain
Heselrigge told him his work was done; and drawing out the sword he
took the streaming blade in his hand.  "Vengeance is satisfied," cried
he; "thus, O God! do I henceforth divide self from my heart!" As he
spoke he snapped the sword in twain, and throwing away the pieces, put
back with his hand the impending weapons of his brave companions, who
having cleared the passage of their assailants, had hurried forward to
assist in ridding their country of so detestable a tyrant.

"Tis done," cried he.  As he spoke he drew down the coverlid and
discovered the body of the governor weltering in blood.  The ghastly
countenance, on which the agonies of hell seemed imprinted, glared
horrible even in death.

Wallace turned away; but the men exulting in the sight, with a shout of
triumph exclaimed, "So fall the enemies of Sir William Wallace!"

"Rather to fall the enemies of Scotland!" cried he; "from this hour
Wallace has neither love nor resentment but for her.  Heaven has heard
me devote myself to work our country's freedom or to die.  Who will
follow me in so just a cause?"

"All!-with Wallace forever!"

The new clamor which this resolution excited, intimidated a fresh band
of soldiers, who were hastening across the courtyard to seek the enemy
in the governor's apartments.  But on the noise they hastily retreated,
and no exertions of their officers could prevail on them to advance
again, or even to appear in sight, when the resolute Scots with Wallace
at their head soon afterward issued from the great gate!  The English
commanders seeing the panic of their men, and which they were less able
to surmount on account of the way to the gate being strewn with their
slain comrades, fell back into the shadow of the towers, where by the
light of the moon, like men paralyzed, they viewed the departure of
their enemies over the trenches.




Chapter VI.

Cartlane Craigs.


The sun was rising from the eastern hills when the victorious group
re-entered the mountain-glen where their families lay.  The cheerful
sounds of their bugles aroused the sleepers from their caves; and many
were the gratulations and embraces which welcomed the warriors to
affection and repose.

Wallace, while he threw himself along a bed of purple heath, gathered
for him by many a busy female hand, listened with a calmed mind to the
fond inquiries of Halbert, who, awakened by the first blast of the
horn, had started from his shelter and hastened to hail the safe return
of his master.  While his faithful followers retired each to the bosom
of his rejoicing family, the fugitive chief of Ellerslie remained alone
with the old man, and recounted to him the success of his enterprise,
and the double injuries he had avenged.  "The assassin," continued he,
"has paid with his life for his inexpiable crime.  He is slain, and
with him several of Edward's garrison.  My vengeance may be appeased;
but what, O Halbert, can bring redress to my widowed heart?  All is
lost to me; I have now nothing to do with this world, but as I may be
the instrument of good to others!  The Scottish sword has now been
redrawn against our foes; and, with the blessing of Heaven, I swear it
shall not be sheathed till Scotland be rid of the tyranny which has
slain my happiness!  This night my gallant Scots have sworn to
accomplish my vow, and death or liberty must be the future fate of
Wallace and his friends."

At these words, tears ran down the cheeks of the venerable harper.
"Alas! my too brave master," exclaimed he, "what is it you would do?
Why rush upon certain destruction?  For the sake of her memory whom you
deplore; in pity to the worthy Earl of Mar, who will arraign himself as
the cause of all these calamities, and of your death, should you fall,
retract this desperate vow!"

"No, my good Halbert," returned Wallace.  "I am neither desperate nor
inefficient; and you, faithful creature, shall have no cause to mourn
this night's resolution.  GO to Lord Mar, and tell him what are my
resolves.  I have nothing now that binds me to life but my country; and
henceforth she shall be to me as mistress, wife and child.  Would you
deprive me of this tie, Halbert?  Would you, by persuading me to resign
my interest in her, devote me to a hermit's seclusion amongst these
rocks? for I will never again appear in the tracks of men if it be not
as the defender of her rights."

"But where, my master, shall we find you, should the earl choose to
join you with his followers?"

"In this wilderness, whence I shall not remove rashly.  My purpose is
to save my countrymen, not to sacrifice them in needless dangers."

Halbert, oppressed with sorrow at the images his foreboding heart drew
of the direful scenes in which his beloved master had pledged himself
to become the leader, bowed his head with submission, and, leaving
Wallace to his rest, retired to the mouth of the cavern to weep alone.

It was noon before the chief awoke from the death-like sleep into which
kind nature had plunged his long-harassed senses.  He opened his eyes
languidly, and when the sight of his rocky apartment forced on him the
recollection of all his miseries, he uttered a deep groan.  That sad
sound, so different from the jocund voice with which Wallace used to
issue from his rest, struck on the heart of Halbert; he drew near his
master to receive his last commands for Bothwell.  "On my knees," added
he, "will I implore the earl to send you succor."

"He needs not prayers for that," returned Wallace; "but depart, dear,
worthy Halbert; it will comfort me to know you are in safety; and
whithersoever you go, you carry my thanks and blessings with you."

Old age opens the fountains of tears; Halbert's flowed profusely, and
bathed his master's hand.  Could Wallace have wept, it would have been
then; but that gentle emollient of grief was denied to him, and, with a
voice of assumed cheerfulness, he renewed his efforts to encourage his
desponding servant.  Half persuaded that a Superior Being did indeed
call his beloved master to some extraordinary exertions for Scotland,
Halbert bade him an anxious farewell, and then withdrew to commit him
to the fidelity of the companions of his destiny.

A few of them led the old man on his way, as far as the western
declivity of the hills, and then, bidding him good speed, he took the
remainder of his journey alone.

After traversing many a weary mile, between Cartlane Craigs and
Bothwell Castle, he reached the valley in which that fortress stands,
and calling to the warder at his gates, that he came from Sir William
Wallace, was immediately admitted, and conducted into the castle.

Halbert was led by a servant into a spacious chamber, where the earl
lay on a couch.  A lady, richly habited, and in the bloom of life, sat
at his head.  Another, much younger, and of resplendent beauty, knelt
at his feet, with a salver of medicinal cordials in her hand.  The Lady
Marion's loveliness had been that of a soft moonlight evening; but the
face which now turned upon Halbert as he entered, was "full of light,
and splendor, and joy;" and the old man's eyes, even though dimmed in
tears, were dazzled.  A young man stood near her. On the entrance of
Halbert, whom the earl instantly recognized, he raised himself on his
arm, and welcomed him.  The young lady rose, and the young man stepped
eagerly forward.

The earl inquired anxiously for Sir William Wallace, and asked if he
might expect him soon at Bothwell.

"He cannot yet come, my lord," replied Halbert; "hard is the task he
has laid upon his valiant head; but he is avenged!  He has slain the
Governor of Lanark."  A faint exclamation broke from the lips of the
young lady.

"How?" demanded the earl.

Halbert now gave a particular account of the anguish of Wallace, when
he was told of the sanguinary events which had taken place at
Ellerslie.  As the honest harper described, in his own ardent language,
the devoted zeal with which the shepherds on the heights took up arms
to avenge the wrong done to their chief, the countenance of the young
lady, and of the youth, glowed through tears; they looked on each
other; and Halbert proceeded:

"When my dear master and his valiant troop were pursuing their way to
Lanark, he was met by Dugald, the wounded man who had rushed into the
room to apprise us of the advance of the English forces.  During the
confusion of that horrible night, and in the midst of the contention,
in spite of his feebleness he crept away, and concealed himself from
the soldiers amongst the bushes of the glen.  When all was over, he
came from his hiding-place; and finding the English soldier's helmet
and cloak, poor Dugald, still fearful of falling in with any straggling
party of Heselrigge's, disguised himself in those Southron clothes.
Exhausted with hunger, he was venturing toward the house in search of
food, when the sight of armed men in the hall made him hastily retreat
into his former place of refuge.  His alarm was soon increased by a
redoubled noise from the house; oaths and horrid bursts of merriment
seemed to have turned that once abode of honor and of loveliness into
the clamorous haunts of ribaldry and rapine.  In the midst of the
uproar, he was surprised by seeing flames issue from the windows.
Soldiers poured from the doors with shouts of triumph; some carried off
the booty, and others watched by the fire till the interior of the
building was consumed and the rest sunk a heap of smoking ruins.

"The work completed, these horrid ministers of devastation left the
vale to its own solitude.  Dugald, after waiting a long time to
ascertain they were quite gone, crawled from the bushes, and, ascending
the cliffs, he was speeding to the mountains, when, encountering our
armed shepherds, they mistook him for an English soldier, and seized
him.  The chief of ruined Ellerslie recognized his servant; and, with
redoubled indignation, his followers heard the history of the moldering
ashes before them."

"Brave, persecuted Wallace!" exclaimed the earl; "how dearly was my
life purchased!  But proceed, Halbert; tell me that he returned safe
from Lanark."

Halbert now recounted the dreadful scenes which took place in that
town; and that when the governor fell, Wallace made a vow never to
mingle with the world again till Scotland should be free.

"Alas!" cried the earl, "what miracle is to effect that?  Surely he
will not bury those noble qualities, that prime of manhood, within the
gloom of a cloister!"

"No, my lord; he has retired to the fastnesses of Cartlane Craigs."

"Why," resumed Mar, "why did he not rather fly to me?  This castle is
strong; and while one stone of it remains upon another, not all the
hosts of England should take him hence."

"It was not your friendship he doubted," returned the old man, "love
for his country compels him to reject all comfort in which she does not
share.  His last words to me were these: 'I have nothing now to do but
to assert the liberties of Scotland, and to rid her of her enemies.  Go
to Lord Mar; take this lock of my hair, stained with the blood of my
wife.  It is all, most likely, he will ever again see of William
Wallace.  Should I fall, tell him to look on that, and in my wrongs
read the future miseries of Scotland; and remember, that God armeth the
patriot!"

Tears dropped so fast from the young lady's eyes, she was obliged to
walk to a window, to restrain a more violent burst of grief.

"O! my uncle," cried the youth, "surely the freedom of Scotland is
possible.  I feel in my soul, that the words of the brave Wallace are
prophetic."

The earl held the lock of hair in his hands; he regarded it, lost in
meditation.

"'God armeth the patriot!'"  He paused again, his before pallid cheek
taking a thousand animated hues; then raising the sacred present to his
lips, "Yes," cried he, "thy vow shall be performed; and while Donald
Mar has an arm to wield a sword, or a man to follow to the field, thou
shalt command both him and them!"

"But not as you are, my lord!" cried the elder lady; "your wounds are
yet unhealed; your fever is still raging!  Would it not be madness to
expose your safety at such a crisis?"

"I shall not take arms myself," answered he, "till I can bear them to
effect; meanwhile all of my clan, and of my friends, that I can raise
to guard the life of my deliverer and to promote the cause, must be
summoned.  This lock shall be my pennon; and what Scotsman will look on
that, and shrink from his colors!  Here, Helen, my child," cried he,
addressing the young lady, "before to-morrow's dawn, have this hair
wrought into my banner.  It will be a patriot's standard; and let his
own irresistible words be the motto--God armeth me."

Helen advanced with awestruck trepidation.  Having been told by the
earl of the generous valor of Wallace, and of the cruel death of his
lady, she had conceived a gratitude and a pity deeper than language
could express, for the man who had lost so much by succoring one so
dear to hear.  She took the lock, waving in yellow light upon her
hands, and, trembling with emotion, was leaving the room, when she
heard her cousin throw himself on his knees.

"I beseech you, my honored uncle," cried he, "if you have love for me,
or value for my future fame, allow me to be the bearer of your banner
to Sir William Wallace."

Helen stopped at the threshold to hear the reply.

"You could not, my dear nephew," returned the earl, "have asked me any
favor I could grant with so much joy.  To-morrow I will collect the
peasantry of Bothwell, and with those, and my own followers, you shall
join Wallace the same night."

Ignorant of the horrors of war, and only alive to the glory of the
present cause, Helen sympathized in the ardor of her cousin, and with a
thrill of sad delight hurried to her apartment, to commence her task.

Far different were the sentiments of the countess, her stepmother.  As
soon as Lord Mar had let this declaration escape his lips, alarmed at
the effect so much agitation might have on his enfeebled constitution,
and fearful of the perilous cause he ventured thus openly to espouse,
she desired his nephew to take the now comforted Halbert (who was
pouring forth his gratitude to the earl, for the promptitude of his
orders), and see that he was attended with hospitality.

When the room was left to the earl and herself, she ventured to
remonstrate with him upon the facility with which he had become a party
in so treasonable a matter.  "Consider, my lord," continued she, "that
Scotland is now entirely in the power of the English monarch.  His
garrisons occupy our towns, his creatures hold every place of trust in
the kingdom!"

"And is such a list of oppressions, my dear lady, to be an argument for
longer bearing them?  Had I, and other Scottish nobles, dared to resist
this overwhelming power after the battle of our liberties, kept our own
unsheathed within the bulwarks of our mountains, Scotland might now be
free; I should not have been insulted by our English tyrants in the
streets of Lanark; and, to save my life, William Wallace would not now
be mourning his murdered wife, and without a home to shelter him!"

Lady Mar paused at this observation, but resumed, "That may be true.
But the die is cast; Scotland is lost forever; and by your attempting
to assist your friend in this rash essay to recover it, you will only
lose yourself also, without preserving him.  The project is wild and
needless.  What would you have?  Now that the contention between the
two kings is past; now that Baliol has surrendered his crown to Edward,
is not Scotland at peace?"

"A bloody peace, Joanna," answered the earl; "witness these wounds.  A
usurper's peace is more destructive than his open hostilities; plunder
and assassination are its concomitants.  I have now seen and felt
enough of Edward's jurisdiction.  It is time I should awake, and, like
Wallace, determine to die for Scotland, or avenge her."

Lady Mar wept.  "Cruel Donald! is this the reward of all my love and
duty?  You tear yourself from me, you consign your estates to
sequestration, you rob your children of their name; nay, by your
infectious example, you stimulate our brother Bothwell's son to head
the band that is to join this madman, Wallace!"

"Hold, Joanna!" cried the earl; "what is it I hear?  You call the hero
who, in saving your husband's life, reduced himself to these cruel
extremities, a madman!  Was he made because he prevented the Countess
of Mar from being a widow?  Was he made because he prevented her
children from being fatherless?"

The countess, overcome by this cutting reproach, threw herself upon her
husband's neck.  "Alas! my lord," cried she, "all is madness to me that
would plunge you into danger.  Think of your own safety; of my innocent
twins now in their cradle, should you fall.  Think of our brother's
feeling when you send his only son to join one he, perhaps, would call
a rebel!"

"If Earl Bothwell considered himself a vassal of Edward's he would not
now be with Lord Loch-awe.  From the moment that gallant Highlander
retired to Argyleshire, the King of England regarded his adherents with
suspicion.  Bothwell's present visit to Loch-awe, you see, is
sufficient to sanction the plunder of this castle by the peaceful
government you approve.  You saw the opening of those proceedings!  And
had they come to their dreadful issue, where, my dear Joanna, would now
be your home, your husband, your children?  It was the arm of the brave
chief of Ellerslie which saved them from destruction."

Lady Mar shuddered.  "I admit the truth of what you say. But oh! is it
not hard to put my all to the hazard; to see the bloody field on one
side of my beloved Donald, and the mortal scaffold on the other?"

"Hush!" cried the earl, "it is justice that beckons me, and victory
will receive me to her arms.  Let, oh Power above!" exclaimed he, in
the fervor of enthusiasm, "let the victorious field for Scotland be
Donald Mar's grave, rather than doom him to live a witness of her
miseries!"

"I cannot stay to hear you!" answered the countess; "I must invoke the
Virgin to give me courage to be a patriot's wife; at present, your
words are daggers to me."

In uttering this she hastily withdrew, and left the earl to muse on the
past--to concert plans for the portentous future.




Chapter VII.

Bothwell Castle.


Meanwhile the Lady Helen had retired to her own apartments.  Lord Mar's
banner being brought to her from the armory, she sat down to weave into
its silken texture the amber locks of the Scottish chief.  Admiring
their softness and beauty, while her needle flew, she pictured to
herself the fine countenance they had once adorned.

The duller extremities of the hair, which a sadder liquid than that
which now dropped from her eyes and rendered stiff and difficult to
entwine with the warp of the silk, seemed to adhere to her fingers.
Helen almost shrunk from the touch.  "Unhappy lady!" she sighed to
herself; "what a pang must have rent her heart, when the stroke of so
cruel a death tore her from such a husband! and how must he have loved
her, when for her sake he thus forswears all future joys but those
which camps and victories may yield!  Ah! what would I give to be my
cousin Murray, to bear this pennon at his side!  What would I give to
reconcile so admirable a being to happiness again--to weep his griefs,
or smile him into comfort!  To be that man's friend, would be a higher
honor than to be Edward's queen."

Her heart was thus discoursing with itself when a page opened the door
for her cousin, who begged admittance.  She had just fastened the
flowing charge into its azure field, and while embroidering the motto,
gladly assented.

"You know not, my good old man," said the gallant Murray to Halbert, as
he conducted him across the galleries, "what a noble mind is contained
in that lovely young creature.  I was brought up with her, and to the
sweet contagion of her taste do I owe that love of true glory which
carries me to the side of Sir William Wallace.  The virtuous only can
awaken any interest in her heart; and in these degenerate days long
might have been its sleep had not the history which my uncle recounted
of your brave master aroused her attention, and filled her with an
admiration equal to my own.  I know she rejoices in my present
destination.  And to prevent her hearing from your own lips all you
have now told me of the mild as well as heroic virtues of my intended
commander--all you have said of the heroism of his wife--would be
depriving her of a mournful pleasure, only to be appreciated by a heart
such as hers."

The gray-haired bard of Ellerslie, who had ever received the dearest
reward of his songs in the smiles of its mistress, did not require
persuasion to appear before the gentle lady of Mar, or to recite in her
ears the story of the departed loveliness, fairer than poet ever
feigned.

Helen rose as he and her cousin appeared.  Murray approved the
execution of her work; and Halbert, with a full heart, took the pennon
in his hand.  "Ah! little did my dear lady think," exclaimed he, "that
one of these loved locks would ever be suspended on a staff to lead men
to battle!  What changes have a few days made!  She, the gentlest of
women, laid in a bloody grave; and he, the most benevolent of human
beings, wielding an exterminating sword!

"You speak of her grave, venerable man," inquired Helen; "had you,
then, an opportunity of performing the rites of sepulture to her
remains?"

"No, madam," replied he; "after the worthy English soldier now in this
castle, assisted me to place her precious body in my lord's oratory, I
had no opportunity of returning to give her a more holy grave."

"Alas!" cried Helen; "then her sacred relics have been consumed in the
burning house!"

"I hope not," rejoined Halbert; "the chapel I speak of is at some
distance from the main building.  It was excavated in the rock by Sir
Ronald Crawford, who gave the name of Ellerslie to this estate, in
compliment to Sir William's place of birth in Renfrewshire, and
bestowed it on the bridal pair.  Since then, the Ellerslie of
Clydesdale has been as dear to my master as that of the Carth; and well
it might be, for it was not only the home of all his wedded joys, but
under its roof his mother, the Lady Margaret Crawford, drew her first
breath.  Ah! woe is me! that happy house is now, like herself, reduced
to cold, cold ashes!  She married Sir Malcolm Wallace, and he is gone
too!  Both the parents of my honored master died in the bloom of their
lives; and a grievous task will it be to whoever is to tell the good
Sir Ronald that the last sweet flower of Ellerslie is now cut down!
that the noblest branch of his own stem is torn from the soil to which
he had transplanted it, and cast far away into the waste wilderness!"**


**The Ellerslie in Renfrewshire here referred to, and which was the
birthplace of William Wallace, and the hereditary property of his
father, Sir Malcolm Wallace, was situated in the abbey parish of
Paisley, three miles west of the won of Paisley, and nine from Glasgow.
A large old oak, still called Wallace's Oak, stands close to the road
from Paisley to Leith, and within a short distance from it once stood
the manor of Ellerslie.  The venerable name is now corrupted into
Elderslie, and the estate has become the property of Archibald Spiers,
Esq., M. P. for Renfrewshire.  For this topographical account, I am
indebted to a Renfrewshire gentleman.-(1809.)

The tears of the venerable harper bore testimony to his inward resolve,
that this messenger should not be himself.  Lady Helen, who had fallen
into a reverie during the latter part of his speech, now spoke, and
with something of eagerness.

"Then we shall hope," rejoined she, "that the oratory has not only
escaped the flames, but perhaps the access of the English soldiers?
Would it not comfort your lord to have that sweet victim entombed
according to the rites of the church?"

"Surely my lady; but how can that be done?  He thinks her remains were
lost in the conflagration of Ellerslie; and for fear of precipitating
him into the new dangers which might have menaced him had he sought to
bring away her body, I did not disprove his mistake."

"But her body shall be brought away," rejoined Lady Helen; "it shall
have holy burial."

"To effect this, command my services," exclaimed Murray.

Helen thanked him for an assistance which would render the completion
of her design easy.  The English soldier as guide, and a troop from
Bothwell, must accompany him.

"Alas! my young lord," interposed Halbert, "suppose you should meet
some of the English still loitering there?"

"And what of that, my honest Halbert? would not I and my trusty band
make them clear the way?  Is it not to give comfort to the deliverer of
my uncle, that I seek the glen? and shall anything in mortal shape make
Andrew Murray turn his back?   No, Halbert!  I was not born on St.
Andrew's day for naught; and by his bright cross I swear either to lay
Lady Wallace in the tomb of my ancestors, or leave my bones to bleach
on the grave of hers."

Helen loved the resolution of her cousin; and believing that the now
ravaged Ellerslie had no attractions to hold marauders amongst its
ruins, she dismissed Lord Andrew to make his preparations, and turned
herself to prefer her suit accordingly to her father.

Ere Halbert withdrew, he respectfully put her hand to his lips.
"Good-night," continued she, "ere you see me again, I trust the earthly
part of the angel now in paradise will be safe within these towers."
He poured a thousand blessings on her head, and almost thought that he
saw in her beautiful form one of heaven's inhabitants sent to bear away
his dear mistress to her divine abode.

On entering her father's apartment, Lady Helen found him alone.  She
repeated to him the substance of her conversation with Wallace's
faithful servant; "and my wish is," continued she, "to have the
murdered lady's remains entombed in the cemetery of this castle."

The earl approved her request, with expressions of satisfaction at the
filial affection which so lively a gratitude to his preserver evinced.

"May I, then, my dear father," returned she, "have your permission to
pay our debt of gratitude to Sir William Wallace to the utmost of our
power?"

"You are at liberty, my noble child, to do as you please.  My vassals,
my coffers, are all at your command."

Helen kissed his hand.  "May I have what I please from the Bothwell
armory?"

"Command even there," said the earl; "your uncle Bothwell is too true a
Scot to grudge a sword in so pious a cause."

Helen threw her arms about her father's neck, thanking him tenderly,
and with a beating heart retired to prosecute her plans.  Murray, who
met her in the anteroom, informed her that fifty men, the sturdiest in
the glen, awaited her orders; while she, telling her cousin of the
earl's approval, took the sacred banner in her hand, and followed him
to the gallery in the hall.

The moment she appeared, a shout of joy bade her welcome.  Murray waved
his hands in token of silence; while she, smiling with the benignity
that spoke her angel errand, spoke with agitation:

"My brave friends!" said she, "I thank you for the ardor with which, by
this night's enterprise, you assist me to pay, in part, the everlasting
tribute due to the man who preserved to me the blessing of a father.

"With that spirit, then," returned she, "I address ye with greater
confidence.  Who amongst you will shrink from following this standard
to the field for Scotland's honor?  Who will refuse to make himself the
especial guardian of the life of Sir William Wallace? and who, in the
moment of peril, will not stand by him to the last?

"None are her," cried a young man, advancing before his fellows, "who
would not gladly die in his defense."

"We swear it," burst from every lip at once.

She bowed her head, and said, "Return from Ellerslie to-morrow, with
the bier of its sainted mistress, I will then bestow upon every man in
this band a war-bonnet plumed with my colors; and this banner shall
then lead you to the side of Sir William Wallace.  In the shock of
battle look at its golden ensign, and remember that God not only armeth
the patriot's hand, but shieldeth his heart.  In this faith, be ye the
bucklers which Heaven sends to guard the life of Wallace; and, so
honored, exult in your station, and expect the future gratitude of
Scotland."

"Wallace and Lady Helen! to death or liberty!" was the animated
response to this exhortation; and smiling and crossing her hands over
her bosom, in token of thanks of them and to Heaven, she retired in the
midst of their acclamations.  Murray, ready armed for his expedition,
met her at the door.  Restored to his usual vivacity by the
spirit-moving emotions which the present scene awakened in his heart,
he forgot the horror which had aroused his zeal, in the glory of some
anticipated victory; and giving her a gay salutation, led her back to
her apartments, where the English soldier awaited her commands.  Lady
Helen, with a gentle grace, commended his noble resentment of
Heselrigge's violence.

"Lands in Mar shall be yours," added she, "or a post of honor in the
little army the earl is now going to raise.  Speak but the word, and
you shall find, worthy Englishman, that neither a Scotsman, nor his
daughter, know what it is to be ungrateful."

The blood mounted into the soldier's cheek.  "I thank you, sweetest
lady, for this generous offer; but, as I am an Englishman, I dare not
accept it.  My arms are due to my own country; and whether I am tied to
it by lands or possessions, or have naught but my English blood and my
oath to my king to bind me, still I should be equally unwarranted in
breaking these bonds.  I left Heselrigge because he dishonored my
country; and for me to forswear her, would be to make myself infamous.
Hence, all I ask is, that after I have this night obeyed your gracious
commands, in leading your men to Ellerslie, the Earl of Mar will allow
me instantly to depart for the nearest port."

Lady Helen replied that she revered his sentiments too sincerely to
insult them by any persuasions to the contrary; and taking a diamond
clasp from her bosom, she put it into his hand; "Wear it in remembrance
of your virtue, and of Helen Mar's gratitude."

The man kissed it respectfully, and bowing, swore to preserve so
distinguishing a gift to the latest hour of his existence.

Helen retired to her chamber to finish her task; and Murray, bidding
her good-night, repaired to the earl's apartments, to take his final
orders before he and his troop set out for the ruins of Ellerslie.




Chapter VIII.

Bothwell Chapel.


Night having passed over the sleepless heads of the inhabitants of
Bothwell Castle, as soon as the sun arose, the Earl of Mar was carried
from his chamber, and laid on a couch in the state apartment.  His lady
had not yet left the room of his daughter, by whose side she had lain
the whole night in hopes of infecting her with the fears which
possessed himself.

Helen replied that she could see no reason for such direful
apprehension, if her father, instead of joining Wallace in person,
would, when he had sent him succors, retire with his family into the
Highlands, and there await the issue of the contest.  "It is too late
to retreat, dear madam," continued she; "the first blow against the
public enemy was struck in defense of Lord Mar; and would you have my
father act so base a part, as to abandon his preserver to the wrath
such generous assistance has provoked?"

"Alas, my child!" answered the countess, "what great service will he
have done to me or to your father, if he deliver him from one danger,
only to plunge him into another?  Edward's power in this country is too
great to be resisted now.  Have not most of our barons sworn fealty to
him? and are not the potent families of the Cummin, the Soulis, and the
March, all in his interest?  You may perhaps say, that most of these
are my relations, and that I may turn them which way I will; but if I
have no influence with a husband, it would be madness to expect it over
more distant kindred.  How, then, with such a host against him, can
your infatuated father venture, without despair, to support the man who
breaks the peace with England?"

"Who can despair, honored lady," returned Helen, "in so just a cause?
Let us rather believe with our good King David, that 'Honor must hope
always; for no real evil can befall the virtuous, either in this world
or in the next!'  Were I a man, the justice that leads on the brave
Wallace would nerve my arm with the strength of a host.  Besides, look
at our country; God's gift of freedom is stamped upon it.  Our
mountains are his seal.  Plains are the proper territories of tyranny;
there the armies of a usurper may extend themselves with ease; leaving
no corner unoccupied in which patriotism might shelter or treason hide.
But mountains, glens, morasses, lakes, set bounds to conquest; and
amidst these stands the impregnable seat of liberty.  To such a
fortress, to the deep defiles of Loch Katrine, or to the
cloud-curtained heights of Corryarraick, I would have my father retire.
In safety he may there watch the footsteps of our mountain-goddess,
till, led by her immortal champion, she plants her standard again upon
the hills of Scotland."

The complexion of the animated Helen shone with a radiant glow.  Her
heart panted with a foretaste of the delight she would feel when all
her generous wishes should be fulfilled; and pressing the now completed
banner to her breast, with an enthusiasm she believed prophetic, her
lips moved, though her voice did not utter the inexpressible rapture of
her heart.

Lady Mar looked at her.  "It is well, romantic girl, that you are of my
own powerless sex; had it been otherwise, your rash-headed disobedience
might have made me rue the day I became your father's wife."

"Sex," returned Helen, mildly, "could not have altered my sense of
duty.  Whether man or woman, I would obey you in all things consistent
with my duty to a higher power; but when that commands, then by the
ordinance of Heaven, we must 'leave father and mother, and cleave unto
it.'"

"And what, O foolish Helen, do you call a higher duty than that of a
child to a parent, or a husband to his wife?"

"Duty of any kind," respectfully answered the young daughter of Mar,
"cannot be transgressed with innocence.  Nor would it be any
relinquishing of duty to you, should my father leave you to take up
arms in the assertion of his country's rights.  Her rights are your
safety; and therefore, in defending them, a husband or a son best shows
his sense of domestic, as well as of public duty."

"Who taught you this sophistry, Helen?  Not your heart, for it would
start at the idea of your father's blood."

Helen turned pale.  "Perhaps, madam, had not the preservation of my
father's blood occasioned such malignity from the English, that nothing
but an armed force can deliver his preserver, I, too, might be content
to see Scotland in slavery.  But now, to wish my father to shrink
behind the excuse of far-strained family duties, and to abandon Sir
William Wallace to the blood hounds who hunt his life, would be to
devote his name of Mar to infamy, and deservedly bring a curse upon his
offspring."

"Then it is to preserve Sir William Wallace you are thus anxious.  Your
spirit of freedom is now disallowed, and all this mighty gathering is
for him.  My husband, his vassals, your cousin, and, in short, the
sequestration of the estates of Mar and Bothwell, are all to be put to
the hazard on account of a frantic outlaw, to whom, since the loss of
his wife, I should suppose, death would be preferable to any gratitude
we can pay him."

Lady Helen, at this ungrateful language, inwardly thanked Heaven that
she inherited no part of the blood which animated so unfeeling a heart.
"That he is an outlaw, Lady Mar, springs from us.  That death is the
preferable comforter of his sorrows, also, he owes to us; for was it
not for my father's sake that his wife fell, and that he himself was
driven into the wilds?  I do not, then, blush for making his
preservation my first prayer; and that he may achieve the freedom of
Scotland, is my second."

"We shall see whose prayers will be answered first," resumed Lady Mar,
rising coldly from her seat.  "My saints are perhaps nearer than yours,
and before the close of this day you will have reason to repent such
extravagant opinions.  I do not understand them."

"Till now, you never disapproved them."

"I allowed them in your infancy," replied the countess, "because I
thought they went no further than a minstrel's song; but since they are
become so dangerous, I rue the hour in which I complied with the
entreaties of Sir Richard Maitland, and permitted you and your sister
to remain at Thirlestane, to imbibe these romantic ideas from the
wizard of Ercildown.**  Had not Sir Richard been your own mother's
father, I would not have been so easily prevailed on; and thus am I
rewarded for my indulgence."

**Few personages are so renowned in tradition as Thomas of Ercildown,
usually called the Rhymer.  He was a poet and a sage, and believed by
his contemporaries to be a prophet.  He was born at Ercildown, a
village on the Leeder (or Lauder), where the ruins of his paternal
castle, called Learmont Tower, still remain.-(1809.)

"I hope, honored madam," said Helen, still wishing to soften the
displeasure of her step-mother, "I hope you will never be ill-rewarded
for that indulgence, either by my grandfather, my sister, or myself.
Isabella, in the quiet of Thirlestane, has no chance of giving you the
offense that I do; and I am forced to offend you, because I cannot
disobey my conscience."  A tear stood in the eye of Lady Helen.
"Cannot you, dear Lady Mar," continued she, forcing a smile, "pardon
the daughter of your early friend, my mother, who loved you as a
sister?  Cannot you forgive her Helen for revering justice even more
than your favor?"

More influenced by the sweet humility of her daughter-in-law than by
the ingenuous eloquence with which she maintained her sentiments, or
with the appeal to the memory of the first Lady Mar, the countess
relaxed the frigid air she had assumed, and kissing her, with many
renewed injunctions to bless the hand that might put a final stop to so
ruinous an enthusiasm in her family, she quitted the room.

As soon as Helen was alone, she forgot the narrow-minded arguments of
the countess; and calling to recollection the generous permission with
which her father had endowed her the night before, she wrapped herself
in her mantle, and, attended by her page, proceeded to the armory.  The
armorer was already there, having just given out arms for three hundred
men, who, by the earl's orders were to assemble by noon on Bothwell
Moor.

Helen told the man she came for the best suit of armor in his
custody-"one of the most excellent proof."

He drew from an oaken chest a coat of black mail, studded with gold.
Helen admired its strength and beauty.  "It is the richest in all
Scotland," answered he; "and was worn by our great Canmore in all his
victories."

"Then it is worthy its destination.  Bring it, with its helmet and
sword, to my apartment."

The armorer took it up; and, accompanied by the page carrying the
lighter parts, followed her into the western tower.

When Helen was again alone, it being yet very early in the morning, she
employed herself in pluming the casque, and forming the scarf she meant
should adorn her present.  Thus time flew, till the sand-glass told her
it was the eighth hour.  But ere she had finished her task, she was
roused from the profound stillness in which that part of the castle
lay, by the doleful lament of the troop returning from Ellerslie.

She dropped the half-formed scarf from her hand; and listened, without
daring to draw her breath, to the deep-toned lamentations.  She thought
that she had never before heard the dirge of her country so piercing,
so thrillingly awful.  Her head fell on the armor and scarf.  "Sweet
lady," sighed she to herself, "who is it that dares thus invade thy
duties?  But my gratitude--gratitude to the once-loved lord, will not
offend thy pure spirit!"  Again the mournful wailings rose on the air;
and with a convulsion of feelings she could not restrain, she threw
herself on her knees, and leaning her head on the newly-adorned helmet,
wept profusely.

Murray entered the room unobserved.  "Helen! my dear cousin!" cried he.
She started, and rising, apologized for her tears by owning the truth.
He now told her, that the body of the deceased lady was deposited in
the chapel of the castle; and that the priests from the adjacent priory
only awaited her presence to consign it, with the church's rites, to
its tomb.

Helen retired for a few minutes to recover herself; and then
re-entering, covered with a black veil, was led by her cousin to the
awful scene.

The bier lay before the altar.  The prior of St. Fillan, in his holy
vestments, stood at its head; a band of monks were ranged on each side.
The maids of Lady Helen, in mourning garments, met their mistress at
the portal.  They had wrapped the beautiful corpse in the shroud
prepared for it; and now having laid it, strewed with flowers, upon the
bier, they advanced to their trembling lady, expecting her to approve
their services.  Helen drew near--she bowed to the priests.  One of the
women put her hand on the pall, to uncover the once lovely face of the
murdered Marion.  Lady Helen hastily resisted the woman's motion, by
laying her hand also upon the pall.  The chill of death struck through
the velvet to her touch.  She turned pale; and waving her hand to the
prior to begin, the bier was lowered by the priests into the tomb
beneath.  As it descended, Helen sunk upon her knees, and the anthem
for departed souls was raised.  The pealing notes, as they rose and
swelled, seemed to bear up the spirit of the sainted Marion to its
native heaven; and the tears which now flowed from the eyes of Helen,
as they mingled with her pious aspirations, seemed the balm of paradise
descending upon her soul.

When all was over, the venerable Halbert, who had concealed his
overwhelming sorrow behind a pillar, threw himself on the cold stone
which now closed the last chamber of his mistress.  With faint cries,
he gave way to the woe that shook his aged bosom, and called on death
to lay him low with her.  The women of Lady Helen again chanted forth
their melancholy wailings for the dead; and unable longer to bear the
scene, she grasped the arm of her cousin, and with difficulty walked
from the chapel.




Chapter IX.

Bothwell Dungeons.


Having rewarded his trusty followers with their promised war-bonnets
from the hand of Helen, and dispatched them onward to the foot of
Cartiane Craigs, to await his arrival with the larger levy.  Murray
proceeded to the apartment of Lord Mar, to inform him how far he had
executed his commands, and to learn his future orders.  HE found the
veteran earl surrounded by arms and armed men; fifty brave Scots, who
were to lead the three hundred on Bothwell Moor, were receiving their
spears and swords, and other weapons, from the hands of their lord.

"Bear these stoutly my gallant countrymen," cried he, "and remember,
that although the dragon** of England has burned up your harvests, and
laid our homes in ashes, there is yet a lion in Scotland to wither his
power, and glut you with his spoil!"

**The standard of Edward I, was a golden dragon--a very ancient British
standard, but derived from pagan times.-(1809.)

The interest of the scene, and the clatter of the arms he was
dispensing, prevented anybody present hearing any sound of what was
taking place beyond the room.  But the earl had hardly uttered these
words, when the double-doors of the apartment were abruptly opened, and
all eyes were blasted by the sudden sight of Lord Soulis,** and a man
in splendid English armor, with a train of Southron soldiers, following
the recreant Scot.

**William Lord Soulis was a powerful chief in the south of Scotland.
He founded pretensions to the Scottish crown, on his descent from an
illegitimate daughter of Alexander II.  Soulis was a traitor to his
country, and so notoriously wicked, that tradition endows him with the
power of infernal necromancy.  His castle of Hermitage, in Teviotdale,
is still shown as the resort of malignant demons.-(1809.)

The earl started from his couch.  "Lord Soulis! what is the occasion of
this unapprised visit?"

"The ensign of the liege lord of Scotland is my warrant!" replied he;
"you are my prisoner; and in the name of King Edward of England, I take
possession of this castle."

"Never!" cried the earl, "while there is a man's arm within it."

"Man and woman," returned Lord Soulis, "must surrender to Edward.
Three thousand English have seized three hundred of our insurgents on
Bothwell Moor.  The castle is surrounded, and resistance impossible.
Throw down your arms!" cried he, turning to the clansmen, who thronged
round their chief; "or be hanged for rebellion against your lawful
sovereign!"

"Our lawful sovereign!" returned a young man who stood near him, "must
be the enemy of Edward; and to none else will we yield our arms!"

"Traitor!" cried the English commander, while with a sudden and
dreadful stroke of his battle-ax he laid the body of the generous Scot
a headless corpse at his feet.  A direful cry proceeded from his
enraged comrades.  Every sword was drawn; and before the bewildered and
soul-struck earl could utter a word, the Furies blew their most
horrible blast through the chamber; and the half-frantic Mar beheld his
brave Scots at one moment victorious, and in the next the floor strewed
with their dead bodies.  A new succession of blood-hounds had rushed in
at every door; and before the exterminating sword was allowed to rest,
the whole of his faithful troops lay around him, wounded and dying.
Several had fallen across his body, having warded with their lives the
strokes they believed leveled at his.  In vain his voice had called
upon his men to surrender--in vain he had implored the iron-hearted
Soulis, and his coadjutor Aymer de Valence, to stop the havoc of death.

All now lay in blood; and the heat of the room, thronged by the
victors, became so intolerable that De Valence, for his own sake,
ordered the earl to be removed into another apartment.

Meanwhile, unconscious of these events, Helen had lain down on her bed,
to seek a few minutes' repose; and having watched the whole of the
preceding night, was sunk into a profound sleep.

Murray, who was present at the abrupt entrance of the enemy, no sooner
heard them declare that the castle was surrounded by a comparatively
large army, than he foresaw all would be lost.  On the instant, and
before the dreadful signal of carnage was given in the fall of the
young Scot, he slid behind the canopy of his uncle's couch; and lifting
the arras by a back door which led to some private rooms, hastily made
way to the chamber of his cousin.  As he hurried along, he heard a
fearful shout.  He paused for a moment, but thinking it best, whatever
might have happened, to secure the safety of Helen, he flew onward, and
entered her room.  She lay upon the bed in a deep sleep.  "Awake,
Helen!" he cried; "for your life, awake!"

She opened her eyes; but, without allowing her time to speak, he
hastily added; "The castle is full of armed men, led hither by the
English commander, Aymer de Valence, and the execrable Soulis.  Unless
you fly through the vaulted passage, you will be their prisoner."

Helen gazed at him in terror.  "Where is my father?  Leave him I
cannot."

"Fly, in pity to your father!  Oh, do not hesitate!  What will be his
anguish, should you fall into the hands of the furious man whose love
you have rejected; when it will no longer be in the power of a parent
to preserve your person from the outrages of his eager and avengeful
passion!  If you had seen Soulis' threatening eyes--" He was
interrupted by a clamor in the opposite gallery, and the shrieks of
women.  Helen grasped his arm.  "Alas, my poor damsels!  I will go with
you, whither you will, to be far from him."

As Murray threw his arm about her waist, to impel her failing steps,
his eyes fell on the banner and the suit of armor.

"All else must be left," exclaimed he, seizing the banner; and hurrying
Helen forward, he hastened with her down the stairs which led from the
western watch-tower to the vaults beneath the castle.  On entering the
first cellar, to which a dim light was admitted through a small grating
near the top, he looked round for the archway that contained the avenue
of their release.  Having descried it, and raised one of the large
flags which paved the floor, he assisted his affrighted cousin down a
short flight of steps, into the secret passage.  "This," whispered he,
"will carry us in a direct line to the cell of the prior of St. Fillan."

"But what will become of my father, and Lady Mar?  This flight, while
they are in danger! oh! I fear to complete it!"

"Rather fear the libertine Soulis," returned Murray, "he can only make
them prisoners; and even that injury shall be of short duration.  I
will soon join the brave Wallace; and then, my sweet cousin, liberty,
and a happy meeting!"

"Alas! his venerable harper," cried she, suddenly remembering Halbert;
"should he be discovered to have belonged to Wallace, he, too, will be
massacred by these merciless men."

Murray stopped.  "Have you courage to remain in this darkness alone?
If so, I will seek him, and he shall accompany us."

Helen had courage for anything but the dangers Murray might encounter
by returning into the castle; but the generous youth had entered too
fully into her apprehensions concerning the old man to be withheld.
"Should I be delayed in coming back," said he, recollecting the
possibility of himself being attacked and slain, "go forward to the end
of this passage; it will lead you to a flight of stairs; ascend them;
and by drawing the bolt of a door, you will find yourself at once in
the prior's cell."

"Talk not of delay," replied Helen; "return quickly, and I will await
you at the entrance of the passage."  So saying, she swiftly retraced
with him her steps to the bottom of the stone stairs by which they had
descended.  He raised the flag, sprung out of the aperture, and closing
it down, left her in solitude and darkness.

Murray passed through the first cellar, and was proceeding to the
second (among the catacombs of which lay the concealed entrance to the
private stairs), when he saw the great gates of the cellar open, and a
large party of English soldiers enter.  They were conducted by the
butler of the castle, who seemed to perform his office unwillingly,
while they crowded in, thirsty and riotous.

Aware how unequal his single arm would be to contend with such numbers,
Murray, at the first glance of these plunderers, retreated behind a
heap of casks in a remote corner.  While the trembling butler was
loading a dozen of the men with flasks for the refreshment of their
masters above, the rest were helping themselves from the adjacent
catacombs.  Some left the cellars with their booty, and others remained
to drink it on the spot.  Glad to escape the insults of the soldiers
who lay wallowing in the wine, Bothwell's old servant quitted the
cellar with the last company which bore flagons to their comrades above.

Murray listened anxiously, in hopes of hearing from his garrulous
neighbors some intimation of the fate of his uncle and aunt.  He
hearkened in vain, for nothing was uttered by these intoxicated
banditti, but loud boastings of the number each had slain in the earl's
apartment; execrations against the Scots for their obstinate
resistance; and a thousand sanguinary wishes, that the nation had but
one neck, to strike off at a blow.

How often, during this conversation, was Murray tempted to rush out
amongst them, and seize a desperate revenge!  But the thought of his
poor cousin, now awaiting his return, and perhaps already suffering
dreadful alarms from such extraordinary uproar, restrained him; and
unable to move from his hiding-place without precipitating himself into
instant death, he remained nearly an hour in the most painful anxiety,
watching the dropping to sleep of this horrid crew, one by one.

When all seemed hushed--not a voice, even in a whisper, startling his
ear--he ventured forth with a stealing step toward the slumbering group.
Like his brave ancestor, Gaul, the son of Morni, "he disdained to stab
a sleeping foe!"  He must pass them to reach the private stairs.  He
paused and listened.  Silence still reigned; not even a hand moved, so
deeply were they sunk in the fumes of wine.  He took courage, and flew
with the lightness of air to the secret door.  As he laid his hand on
it, it opened from without, and two persons appeared.  By the few rays
which gleamed from the expiring torches of the sleepers, he could see
that the first wore English armor.  Murray made a spring, and caught
the man by the throat; when some one seizing his arm, exclaimed, "Stop,
my Lord Murray! it is the faithful Grimsby."  Murray let go his hold,
glad to find that both his English friend and the venerable object of
his solicitude were thus providentially brought to meet him; but
fearing that the violence of his action, and Halbert's exclamation,
might have alarmed the sleeping soldiers (who, drunk as they were, were
too numerous to be resisted), he laid his finger on the tip of Grimsby,
and motioned to the astonished pair to follow him.

As they advanced, they perceived one of the soldiers move as if
disturbed.  Murray held his sword over the sleeping wretch, ready to
plunge it into his heart should he attempt to rise; but he became still
again; and the fugitive having approached the flag, Murray drew it up,
and eager to haven his double charge, he thrust them together down the
stairs.  At that moment, a shriek from Helen (who had discovered, by a
gleam of light which burst into the vault, a man descending in English
armor), echoed through the cellars.  Two of the soldiers jumped upon
their feet, and rushed upon Murray.  He had let the flag drop behind
him; but still remaining by it, in case of an opportunity to escape, he
received the strokes of their weapons upon his target, and returned
them with equal rapidity.  One assailant lay gasping at his feet.  But
the clashing of arms, and the cries of the survivor had already
awakened the whole crew.  With horrid menaces, they threw themselves
toward the young Scot, and would certainly have cut him to pieces, had
he not snatched the only remaining torch out of the hand of the
staggering soldier, and extinguished it under his foot.  Bewildered
where to find their prey, with threats and imprecations, they groped in
darkness, slashing the air with their swords, and not unfrequently
wounding each other in the vain search.

Murray was now far from their pursuit.  He had no sooner put out the
light, than he pulled up the flag, and leaping down, drew it after him,
and found himself in safety.  Desperate as was the contest, it had been
short; for he yet heard the footsteps of the panic-struck Helen, flying
along the passage.  The Englishman and Halbert, on the first falling of
the flag, not knowing its spring, had unsuccessfully tried to re-raise
it, that they might assist Murray in the tumult above.  On his
appearing again so unexpectedly, they declared their joy; but the young
lord, impatient to calm the apprehensions of his cousin, returned no
other answer than "Follow me!" while he darted forward.  Terror had
given her wings, and even prevented her hearing the low sounds of
Murray's voice, which he durst not raise to a higher pitch, for fear of
being overheard by the enemy.  Thus, while she lost all presence of
mind, he did not come up with her till she fell breathless against he
stairs at the extremity of the vault.




Chapter X.

St. Fillan's.


As soon as Murray found her within his arms, he clasped her insensible
form to his breast, and carrying her up the steps, drew the bolt of the
door.  It opened to his pressure, and discovered a large monastic cell,
into which the daylight shone through one long narrow window.  A straw
pallet, an altar, and a marble basin, were the furniture.  The cell was
solitary the owner being then at mass in the chapel of the monastery.
Murray laid down his death-like burden on the monk's bed.  He then
ventured (believing, as it was to restore so pure a being to life, it
could not be sacrilege) to throw some of the holy water upon his
cousin's face; and by means of a little chalice, which stood upon the
altar, he poured some into her mouth.  At last opening her eyes, she
recognized the figure of her young kinsman leaning over her.  The
almost paralyzed Halbert stood at her feet.  "Blessed Virgin! am I yet
safe, and with my dear Andrew!  Oh! I feared you were slain!" cried
she, bursting into tears.

"Thank God, we are both safe," answered he; "comfort yourself, my
beloved cousin! you are now on holy ground; this is the cell of the
prior of St. Fillan.  None but the hand of an infidel dare wrest you
from this sanctuary."

"But my father, and Lady Mar?"  And again her tears flowed.

"The countess, my gracious lady," answered Halbert, "since you could
not be found in the castle, is allowed to accompany your father to
Dumbarton Castle, there to be treated with every respect, until De
Valence receives further orders from King Edward."

"But for Wallace!" cried she, "ah, where are now the succors that were
to be sent to him!  And without succors, how can he, or you, dearest
Andrew, rescue my father from this tyranny!"

"Do not despair," replied Murray; "look but at the banner you held
fast, even while insensible; your own hands have engraven my answer--God
armeth the patriot!  Convinced of that, can you still fear for you
father?  I will join Wallace to-morrow.  Your own fifty warriors await
me at the bottom of Cartlane Craigs; and if any treachery should be
meditated against my uncle, that moment we will make the towers of
Dumbarton shake to their foundation."

Helen's reply was a deep sigh: she though it might be Heaven's will
that her father, like the good Lord Douglas, should fall a victim to
royal revenge; and so sad were her forebodings, that she hardly dared
to hope what the sanguine disposition of her cousin promised.  Grimsby
now came forward; and unloosing an iron box from under his arm, put it
into the hands of Lord Murray.

"This fatal treasure," said he, "was committed to my care by the earl,
your uncle, to deliver to the prior of St. Fillan's."

"What does it contain?" demanded Murray; "I never saw it before."

"I know not its contents," returned the soldier; "it belongs to Sir
William Wallace."

"Indeed!" ejaculated Helen.  "If it be treasure, why was it not rather
sent to him!"

"But how, honest soldier," asked Murray, "did you escape with it, and
Halbert, too!  I am at a loss to conjecture, but by miracle."

He replied, that as soon as the English, and their Scottish partisans
under Lord Soulis, had surprised the castle, he saw that his only
chance of safety was to throw off the bonnet and plaid, and mix amongst
the numerous soldiers who had taken possession of the gates.  His
armor, and his language, showed he was their countryman; and they
easily believed that he had joined the plunderers as a volunteer from
the army, which at a greater distance beleaguered the castle.  The
story of his desertion from the Lanark garrison had not yet reached
those of Glasgow and Dumbarton; and one or two men, who had known him
in former expeditions, readily reported that he had been drafted into
the present one.  Their recognition warranted his truth; and he had no
difficulty, after the carnage in the state apartment, to make his way
to the bed-chamber where Lord Aymer de Valence had ordered Lord Mar to
be carried.   He found the earl alone, and lost in grief.  He knew not
but that his nephew, and even his daughter and wife, had fallen beneath
the impetuous swords of the enemy.  Astonished at seeing the soldier
walking at large, he expressed his surprise with some suspicions.  But
Grimsby told him the strategem he had used, and assured him Lord Andrew
had not been seen since the onset.  This information inspired the earl
with a hope that his nephew might have escaped: and when the soldier
also said, that he had seen the countess led by Lord Soulis across the
hall toward the Lady Helen's apartments, while he overheard him
promising them every respect, the earl seemed comforted.  "But how,"
inquired he of Grimsby, "has this hard fate befallen us?  Have you
learned how De Valence knew that I meant to take up arms for my
country?"

When the soldier was relating this part of the conference, Murray
interrupted him with the same demand.

"On that head I cannot fully satisfy you," replied he; "I could only
gather from the soldiers that a sealed packet had been delivered to Lor
Aymer de Valence late last night at Dumbarton Castle.  Soulis was then
there; and he immediately set off to Glasgow, for the followers he had
left in that town.  Early this morning he joined De Valence and his
legions on Bothwell Moor.  The consequences there you know.  But they
do not end at Bothwell.  The gallant Wallace-"

At that name, so mentioned, the heart of Helen grew cold.

"What of him?" exclaimed Murray.

"No personal harm yet happened to Sir William Wallace," replied
Grimsby; "but at the same moment in which De Valence gave orders for
his troops to march on Bothwell, he sent others to intercept that
persecuted knight's escape from the Cartlane Craigs."

"That accursed sealed packet," cried Murray, "has been the traitor!
Some villian in Bothwell Castle must have written it.  Whence else
could have come the double information?  And if so," added he, with
tremendous emphasis, "may the blast of slavery ever pursue him and his
posterity!"

Helen shuddered, as the amen to this frightful malediction was echoed
by the voices of Halbert and the soldier.  The latter continued:

"When I informed Lord Mar of these measures against Wallace, he
expressed a hope that your first detachment to his assistance might,
with yourself, perhaps, at its head, elude their vigilance, and join
his friend.  This discourse reminded him of the iron box.  'It is in
that closet,' said his lordship, pointing to an opposite door; you will
find it beneath the little altar, before which I pay my daily duties to
the allwise Dispenser of the fates of men; else where would be my
confidence now?  Take it thence, and buckle it to your side."

"I obeyed, and he then proceeded: 'There are two passages in this house
which lead to the sanctuary.  The one nearest to us is the safest for
you.  A staircase from the closet you have just left will lead you
directly into the chapel.  When there hasten to the image of the
Virgin, and slip aside the marble tablet on the back of the pedestal:
it will admit you to a flight of steps; descend them, and at the bottom
you will find a door, that will convey you into a range of cellars.
Lift up the largest flag-stone in the second, and you will be conducted
through a dark vault to an iron door; draw the bolt, and remain in the
cell it will open to you till the owner enters.  He is the prior of St.
Fillan's and a Murray.  Give him this golden cross, which he well
knows, as a mark you come from me; and say it is my request that he
assist you to gain the sea-shore.  As for the iron box, tell him to
preserve it as he would his life; and never to give it up, but to
myself, my children, or to Sir William Wallace, it's rightful master.'"

"Alas!" cried Halbert, "that he had never been its owner! that he had
never brought it to Ellerslie, to draw down misery on his head!
Ill-omened trust! whatever it contains, its presence carried blood and
sorrow in its train.  Wherever it has been deposited war and murder
have followed: I trust my dear master will never see it more!"

"He may indeed never see it more!" murmured Helen, in a low voice.
"Where are now my proud anticipations of freedom to Scotland?  Alas,
Andrew," said she, taking his hand, and weeping over it.  "I have been
too presumptuous; my father is a prisoner, and Sir William Wallace is
lost!"

"Cease, my dear Helen," cried he, "cease to distress yourself! These
are merely the vicissitudes of the great contention we are engaged in.
We must expect occasional disappointments, or look for miracles every
day.  Such disasters are sent as lessons to teach us precaution,
proptitude and patience--these are the soldier's graces, my sweet
cousin, and depend on it, I will pay them due obedience."

"But why," asked Helen, taking comfort from the unsubdued spirits of
her cousin, "why, my good soldier, did not my dear father take
advantage of this sanctuary?"

"I urged the earl to accompany me," returned Grimsby; "but he said such
a proceeding would leave his wife and babes in unprotected captivity.
'No,' added he, 'I will await my fate; for the God of those who trust
in him knows that I do not fear!'

"Having received such peremptory orders from the earl, I took my leave;
and entering the chapel by the way he directed, was agreeably surprised
to find the worthy Halbert, whom, never having seen since the funeral
obsequies, I supposed had fallen during the carnage in the
state-chamber.  He was still kneeling by the tomb of his buried
mistress.  I did not take long to warn him of his danger, and desired
him to follow me.  We descended together beneath the holy statue, and
were just emerging into the cellars when you, sir, met us at the
entrance.

"It was while we were yet in the chapel that I heard De Valence and
Soulis at high words in the courtyard.  The former, in a loud voice,
gave orders that, as Lady Helen Mar could nowhere be found, the earl
and countess, with their two infant children, should not be separated,
but be conveyed as his prisoners to Dumbarton Castle."

"That is a comfort," cried Helen; "my father will then be consoled by
the presence of his wife."

"But very different would have been the case, madam, had you appeared,"
rejoined the soldier.  "One of Lord de Valence's men told me, that Lord
Soulis intended to have taken you and the countess to Dunglass Castle,
near Glasgow, while the sick earl was to have been carried alone to
Dumbarton, and detained in solitary confinement.  Lord Soulis was in so
dreadful a rage, when you could not be found, that he accused the
English commander of having leagued with Lady Mar to deceived him.  In
the midst of this contention we descended into the vaults."

Helen shuddered at the thought of how near she was to falling into the
hands of so fierce a spirit.  In his character, he united every quality
which could render power formidable; combining prodigious bodily
strength with cruelty, dissimulation, and treachery.  He was feared by
the common people as a sorcerer; and avoided by the virtuous of his own
rank, as an enemy to all public law, and the violator of every private
tie.  Helen Mar had twice refused his hand: first, during the contest
for the kingdom, when his pretended claim to the crown was disallowed.
She was then a mere child, hardly more than fourteen; but she rejected
him with abhorrence.  Though stung to the quick at being denied the
objects both of his love and ambition at the same moment, he did not
hesitate at another period to renew his offer to her.  At the fall of
Dunbar, when he again founded his uprise on the ruins of his country,
as soon as he had repeated his oaths of fidelity to Edward, he hastened
to Thirlestane, to throw himself a second time at the feet of Lady
Helen.  Her ripened judgment confirmed her youthful dislike of his
ruffian qualities, and again he was rejected.

"By the powers of hell," exclaimed he, when the project of surprising
Bothwell was imparted to him, "if I once get that proud minion into my
grasp, she shall be mine as I will, and learn to beg for even a look
from the man who has humbled her!"

Helen knew not half the afflictions with which his resentful heart had
meditated to subdue and torture her; and therefore, though she shrunk
at the sound of a name so generally infamous, yet, not aware of all the
evils she had escaped, she replied with languor, though with gratitude,
to the almost rapturous congratulations of her cousin on her timely
flight.

At this period the door of the cell opened, and the prior entered from
the cloisters--he started on seeing his room filled with strangers.
Murray took off his helmet, and approached him.  On recognizing the son
of his patron, the prior inquired his commands; and expressed some
surprise that such a company, and above all, a lady, could have passed
the convent-gate without his previous notice.

Murray pointed to the recess behind the altar; and then explained to
the good priest the necessity which had compelled them to thus seek the
protection of St. Fillan.  "Lady Helen," continued he, "must share your
care until Heaven empowers the Earl of Mar to reclaim his daughter, and
adequately reward this holy church."

The soldier then presented the cross, with the iron box; repeating the
message that confided them also to his keeping.

The prior listened to these recitals with sorrowful attention.  He had
not heard the noise of armed men advancing to the castle; but knowing
that the earl was making warlike preparations, he had no suspicion that
these were other than the Bothwell soldiers.  He took the box, and
laying it on the altar, pressed the cross to his lips.  "The Earl of
Mar shall find that fidelity here which his faith in the church merits.
That mysterious chest, to which you tell me so terrible a denunciation
is annexed, shall be preserved sacred as the relics of St. Fillan."

Halbert groaned heavily at these words, but he did not speak.  The
father looked at him attentively, and then proceeded: "But for you,
virtuous Southron, I will give you a pilgrim's habit.  Travel in that
privileged garb to Montrose; and there a brother of the church, the
prior of Aberbrothick, will, by a letter from me, convey you in a
vessel to Normandy; thence you may safely find your way to Guienne."

The soldier bowed his head; and the priest, turning to Lady Helen, told
her that a cell should be appointed for her, and some pious woman
brought from the adjoining hamlet to pay her due attendance.

"As for this venerable man," continued he, "his silver hairs already
proclaim him near his heavenly country!  He had best put on the cowl of
the holy brotherhood, and, in the arms of religion, repose securely,
till he passes through the sleep of death to wake in everlasting life!"

Tears started into the eyes of Halbert.  "I thank you, reverend father;
I have indeed drawn near the end of my pilgrimage--too old to serve my
dear master in fields of blood and hardship, I will at least devote my
last hours to uniting my prayers with his, and all good souls, for the
repose of his sainted lady.  I accept your invitation thankfully; and,
considering it a call from Heaven to give me rest, I welcome the day
that marks the poor harper of Ellerslie with the sacred tonsure."

The sound of approaching trumpets, and, soon after, the clattering of
horses and the clang of armor, made an instantaneous silence in the
cell.  Helen looked fearfully at her cousin, and grasped his hand;
Murray clasped his sword with a firmer hold.  "I will protect you with
my life."  He spoke in a low tone, but he soldier heard him: "There is
no cause of alarm," rejoined he; "Lord de Valence is only marching by
on his way to Dumbarton."

"Alas, my poor father!" cried Helen, covering her face with her hands.

The venerable prior, pitying her affliction, knelt down by her.  "My
daughter, be comforted," said he; "they dare not commit any violence on
the earl.  King Edward too well understands his own interest to allow
even a long imprisonment to so popular a nobleman."  This assurance,
assisted by the consolations of a firm trust in God, caused her to
raise her head with a meek smile.  He continued to speak of the
impregnable hopes of the Christian who founds his confidence on
Omnipotence; and while his words spread a serenity through her soul,
that seemed the ministration of a descended saint, she closed her hands
over her breast, and silently invoked the protection of the Almighty
Jehovah for her suffering parent.

The prior, seeing her composed, recommended leaving her to rest.  And
Helen, comforted by holy meditations, allowing her cousin to depart, he
led Murray and his companions into the convent library.




Chapter XI.

The Chapter House.


The march of De Valence from the castle having proved that no suspicion
of any of its late inhabitants being still in the neighborhood remained
with its usurpers, Grimsby thought he might depart in safety; and next
morning he begged permission of the prior to commence his journey.  "I
am anxious to quit a land," said he, "where my countrymen are
committing violences which make me blush at the name of Englishman."

Murray put a purse of gold into the soldier's hand, while the prior
covered his armor with a pilgrim's gown.  Grimsby, with a respectful
bow, returned the gift;  "I cannot take money from you, my lord.  But
bestow on me the sword at your side, and that I will preserve forever."

Murray took it off, and gave it to the soldier.  "Let us exchange, my
brave friend!" said he; "give me yours, and it shall be a memorial to
me of having found virtue in an Englishman."

Grimsby unlocked his rude weapon in a moment, and as he put the iron
hilt into the young Scot's hand, a tear stood in his eye: "When you
raise this sword against my countrymen, think on Grimsby, a faithful,
though humble soldier of the cross, and spare the blood of all who ask
for mercy."

Murray looked a gracious assent, for the tear of mercy was infectious.
Without speaking, he gave the good soldier's hand a parting grasp; and
with regret that superior claims called so brave a man from his side,
he saw him leave the monastery.

The mourner banquets on memory; making that which seems the poison of
life, its ailment.  During the hours of regret we recall the images of
departed joys; and in weeping over each tender remembrance, tears so
softly shed embalm the wounds of grief.  To be denied the privilege of
pouring forth our love and our lamentations over the grave of one who
in life was our happiness, is to shut up the soul of the survivor in a
solitary tomb, where the bereaved heart pines in secret till it breaks
with the fullness of uncommunicated sorrow; but listen to the mourner,
give his feelings way, and, like the river rolling from the hills into
the valley, they will flow with a gradually gentler stream, till they
become lost in time's wide ocean.

So Murray judged when the poor old harper, finding himself alone with
him, again gave loose to his often-recapitulated griefs.  He wept like
an infant; and recounting the afflictions of his master, while
bewailing the disasters at Bothwell, implored Murray to go without
delay to support the now almost friendless Wallace.  Murray was
consoling him with the assurance that he would set off for the
mountains that very evening, when the prior returned to conduct Halbert
to a cell appointed for his novitiate.  The good priest had placed one
of his most pious fathers there, to administer both temporal and
spiritual cordials to the aged sufferer.

The sorrowing domestic of Wallace being thus disposed of, the prior and
Murray remained together, consulting on the safest means of passing to
the Cartlane hills.  A lay brother whom the prior had sent in pursuit
of Helen's fifty warriors, to apprise them of the English being in the
craigs, at this juncture entered the library.  He informed the father
that, secure in his religious garb, he had penetrated many of the
Cartlane defiles, but could neither see nor hear anything of the party.
Every glen or height was occupied by the English: and from a woman, of
whom he begged a draught of milk, he had learned how closely the
mountains were invested.  The English commander, in his zeal to prevent
provisions being conveyed to Wallace and his famishing garrison, had
stopped a procession of monks bearing a dead body to the sepulchral
cave of St. Columba.  He would not allow them to ascend the heights
until he had examined whether the bier really bore a corpse, or was a
vehicle to carry food to the beleaguered Scots.

In the midst of this information, the prior and his friends were
startled by a shout, and soon after a tumult of voices, in which might
be distinguished the cry of "A gallows for the traitor!"

"Our brave Englishman has fallen into their hands," cried Murray,
hastening toward the door.

"What would you do?" interrupted the prior, holding him.  "Your single
arm could not save the soldier.  The cross has more power; I will seek
these violent men.  Meanwhile stay here, as you value the lives of all
in the convent."

Murray had now recollected himself, and acquiesced.  The prior took the
crucifix from the altar, and ordering the porter to throw open the
great doors (near which the incessant shouting seemed to proceed), he
appeared before a turbulent band of soldiers, who were dragging a man
along, fast bound with their leathern belts.  Blood trickling from his
face fell on the hands of the ruthless wretches, who, with horrid
yells, were threatening him with instant death.

The prior, raising the cross, rushed in among them, and, in the name of
the blessed Son who died on that tree, bade them stand!  The soldiers
trembled before the holy majesty of his figure, and at his awful
adjuration.  The prior looked on the prisoner, but he did not see the
dark locks of the Englishman; it was the yellow hair of Scotland that
mingled with the blood on his forehead.

"Whither do you hurry that wounded man?"

"To his death," answered a surly fellow.

"What is his offense?"

"He is a traitor."

"How has he proved it?"

"He is a Scot, and he belongs to the disloyal Lord of Mar.  This bugle,
with its crowned falcon, proves it," added the Southron, holding up the
very bugle which the earl had sent by Halbert to Wallace, and which was
ornamented with the crest of Mar wrought in gold.

"That this has been Lord Mar's," replied the prior, "there is no doubt;
but may not this man have found it?  Or may it not have been given to
him by the earl, before that chief incurred the displeasure of King
Edward?  Which of you would think it just to be made to die because
your friend was condemned to the scaffold?  Unless you substantiate
your charge against this man, by a better proof than this bugle, his
death would be a murder, which the Lord of life will requite in the
perdition of your souls."  As the father spoke, he again elevated the
cross: the men turned pale.

"I am a minister of Christ," continued he, "and must be the friend of
justice.  Release, therefore, that wounded man to me.  Before the altar
of the Searcher of all hearts he shall confess himself; and if I find
that he is guilty unto death, I promise you by the holy St. Fillan, to
release him to your commanding officer, and so let justice take its
course.  But if he proves innocent, I am the soldier of Christ, and no
monarch on earth shall wrest his children from the protection of the
church."

While he spoke, the men who held the prisoner let go their hold, and
the prior stretching out his hand, gave him to a party of monks to
conduct into the convent.  Then, to convince the soldiers that it was
the man's life he sought to save, and not the spoil, he returned the
golden bugle, and bade him depart in peace.

Awed by the father's address, and satisfied with the money and arms of
which they had rifled the stranger, the marauders retreated;
determining, indeed, to say nothing of the matter to the officer in the
castle, lest he should demand the horn; and, elated with the present
booty, they marched off to pursue their plundering excursion.  Bursting
into yeomen's houses and peasants' huts, stripping all of their
substance who did or did not swear fealty to Edward; thus robbing the
latter, and exacting contributions from the former; while vain prayers
for mercy and unanswered cries for redress echoed dolefully through the
vale of Bothwell, they sped gayly on, as if murder were pastime and
rapine honor.

The prior, on returning into the convent, ordered the gates to be
bolted.  When he entered the chapter-house, finding the monks had
already bound up the wounds of the stranger, he made a sign for the
brethren to withdraw: and then, approaching the young man, "My son,"
said he, in a mild tone, "you heard my declaration to the men from whom
I took you!  Answer me the truth and you shall find that virtue or
repentance have alike a refuge in the arms of the church.  As I am its
servant, no man need fear to confide in me.  Speak with candor!  How
came you by that bugle?"

The stranger looked steadfastly on his questioner; "A minister of the
all righteous God cannot mean to deceive.  You have saved my life, and
I should be less than man could I doubt the evidence of that deed.  I
received that bugle from a brave Scot who dwells amongst the eastern
mountains; and who gave it to me to assure the Earl of Mar that I came
from him."

The prior apprehended that it was of Wallace he spoke.  "You come to
request a military aid from the Earl of Mar!" rejoined the father,
willing to sound him, before he committed Murray, by calling him to the
conference.

The stranger replied: "If, reverend sir, you are in the confidence of
the good earl, pronounce but the Christian name of the man who charged
me with the bugle, and allow me, then, for his sake, to ask you what
has indeed happened to the earl! that I was seized by foes, when I
expected to meet with friends only!  Reply to this, and I shall speak
freely; but at present, though I would confide all of myself to your
sacred character, yet the confidence of others is not mine to bestow."

The prior, being convinced by this caution, that he was indeed speaking
with some messenger from Wallace, made no hesitation to answer.  "Your
master is a knight, and a braver never drew breath since the time of
his royal namesake, William the Lion!"

The man rose hastily from his seat, and falling on his knees before the
prior, put his garment to his lips: "Father, I now know that I am with
a friend of my persecuted master!  But if, indeed, the situation of
Lord Mar precludes assistance from him, all hope is lost!  The noble
Wallace is penned within the hills, without any hopes of escape.
Suffer me, then, thou venerable saint! to rejoin him immediately, that
I may at least die with my friend!"

"Hope for a better destiny," returned the prior; "I am a servant, and
not to be worshiped; turn to that altar, and kneel to Him who can alone
send the succor you need!"

The good man, thinking it was now time to call the young lord of
Bothwell, by a side-door from the chapter-house entered the library,
where Murray was anxiously awaiting his return.  On his entrance, the
impatient youth eagerly exclaimed, "Have you rescued him?"

"Grimsby, I hope, is far and safely on his journey," answered the good
priest; "but the man those murderers were dragging to death, is in the
chapter-house.  Follow me, and he will give you news of Wallace."

Murray gladly obeyed.

At sight of a Scottish knight in armor, the messenger of Wallace
thought his prayers were answered, and that he saw before him the
leader of the host which was to march to the preservation of his brave
commander.  Murray told him who he was; and learned from him in return,
that Wallace now considered himself in a state of siege; that the
women, children, and old men with him, had nothing to feed on but wild
strawberries and birds' eggs, which they found in the hollows of the
rocks.  "To relieve them from such hard quarters, girded by a barrier
of English soldiers," continued the narrator, "is his first wish: but
that cannot be effected by our small number.  However, he would make
the attempt by a strategem, could we be at all supported by succors
from the Earl of Mar!"

"My uncle's means," replied Murray, "are for a time cut off: but mine
shall be exerted to the utmost.  Did you not meet, somewhere, a company
of Scots to the number of fifty?  I sent them off yesterday to seek
your noble chief."

"No," rejoined the young man; "I fear they have been taken by the
enemy; for in my way to Sir William Wallace, not knowing the English
were so close to his sanctuary, I was nearly seized myself.  I had not
the good fortune to be with him, when he struck the first blow for
Scotland in the citadel of Lanark; but as soon as I heard the tale of
his wrongs, and that he had retired in arms toward the Cartlane Craigs,
I determined to follow his fate.  We had been companions in our boyish
days, and friends after.  He saved my life once, in swimming; and now
that a formidable nation menaces his, I seek to repay the debt.  For
this purpose, a few nights ago I left my guardian's house by stealth,
and sought my way to my friend.  I found the banks of the Mouse
occupied by the English; but exploring the most intricate passes, at
last gained the bottom of the precipice on the top of which Wallace is
encamped; and as I lay among the bushes, watching an opportunity to
ascend, I perceived two English soldiers near me.  They were in
discourse, and I overheard them say, that besides Heselrigge himself,
nearly two hundred of his garrison had fallen by the hand of Wallace's
men in the contention at the castle; that the tidings were sent to Sir
Richard Arnulf, the Deputy-governor of Ayr; and he had dispatched a
thousand men to surround the Cartland Craigs, spies having given notice
that they were Sir William's strongholds, and the orders were, that he
must be taken dead or alive; while all his adherents, men and women,
should receive no quarter.

"Such was the information I brought to my gallant friend, when in the
dead of night I mounted the rock, and calling to the Scottish sentinel
in Gaelic, gave him my name, and was allowed to enter the sacred spot.
Wallace welcomed his faithful Ker,** and soon unfolded his distress and
his hopes.  He told me of the famine that threatened his little
garrison; of the constant watching, day and night, necessary to prevent
a surprise.  But in his extremity, he observed that one defile was
thinly guarded by the enemy; probably because, as it lay at the bottom
of a perpendicular angle of the rock, they thought it unattainable by
the Scots.  To this point, however, my dauntless friend turns his eyes.
He would attempt it, could he procure a sufficient number of fresh men
to cover the retreat of his exhausted few.  For this purpose, as I had
so lately explored the most hidden paths of the craigs, I volunteered
to visit the Lord Mar, and to conduct, in safety, any succors he might
send to our persecuted leader."

**The stem of this brave name, in subsequent times, became two great
branches, the Roxburghe and the Lothian.

"This," continued Ker, "was the errand on which I came to the earl.
Think then my horror, when in my journey I found redoubled legions
hemming in the hills; and on advancing toward Bothwell Castle, was
seized with that nobleman, who, they said, was condemned to lose his
head!"

"Not so bad as that, my brave Ker," cried Murray, a glow of indignation
flushing his cheek; "many a bull's head** shall frown in this land, on
the Southron tables, before my uncle's neck gluts their axes!  No true
Scottish blood, I trust, will ever stain their scaffolds; for while we
have arms to wield a sword, he must be a fool that grounds them on any
other terms than freedom or death.  We have cast our lives on the die;
and Wallace's camp or the narrow house must be our prize!"

**A bull's head, presented at a feast, was a sign that some one of the
company was immediately to be put to death.-(1809.)

"Noble youth!" exclaimed the prior, "may the innocence which gives
animation to your courage, continue its moving soul!  They only are
invincible who are as ready to die as to live; and no one can be firm
in that principle, whose exemplary life is not a happy preparation for
the awful change."

Murray bowed modestly to this pious encomium, and turning to Ker,
informed him, that since he must abandon all hope of hearing any more
of the fifty brave men his cousin Helen had s

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