**Cloth of Baudkins was one of the richest stuffs worn in the thirteenth century. It is said to have been composed of silk interwoven with gold. The carkanet was a large broad necklace of precious stones of all colors, set in various shapes, and fastened by gold links into each other.

De Warenne followed her with his eyes as she moved from him. With an unconscious sigh, he whispered to De Valence, "What a land is this, where all the women are fair, and the men all brave!"

"I wish that it, and all its men and women, were in perdition!" returned De valence, in a fierce tone. Lady Ruthven, entering with the wives and daughters of the neighboring chieftains, checked the further expression of his wrath, and his eyes sought amongst them, but in vain, for Helen.

The chieftains of the Scottish army, with the Lords Buchan and March, were assembled around the countess at the moment a shout from the populace without announced the arrival of the regent. His noble figure was now disencumbered of armor; and with no more sumptuous garb than the simple plaid of his country, he appeared effulgent in manly beauty and the glory of his recent deeds. De Valence frowned heavily as he looked on him, and thanked his fortunate stars that Helen was absent from sharing the admiration which seemed to animate every breast. The eyes of Lady Mar at once told the impassioned De Valence, too well read in the like expressions, what were her sentiments toward the young regent; and the blushes and eager civilities of the ladies around displayed how much they were struck with the now fully discerned and unequaled graces of his person. Lady mar forgot all in him. And, indeed, so much did he seem the idol of every heart, that, from the two venerable lords of Loch-awe and Bothwell to the youngest man in company, all ears hung on his words, all eyes upon his countenance.

The entertainment was conducted with every regard to that chivalric courtesy which a noble conqueror always pays to the vanquished. Indeed, from the wit and pleasantry which passed from the opposite sides of the tables, and in which the ever-gay Murray was the leader, it rather appeared a convivial meeting of friends than an assemblage of mortal foes. During the banquet the bards sung legends of the Scottish worthies who had brought honor to their nation in days of old; and as the board was cleared, they struck at once into a full chorus. Wallace caught the sound of his own name, accompanied with epithets of extravagant praise; he rose hastily from his chair, and with his hand motioned them to cease. They obeyed; but Lady mar remonstrating with him, he smilingly said, it was an ill omen to sing a warrior's actions till he were incapable of performing more; and therefore he begged she would excuse him from hearkening to his.

"Then let us change their strains to a dance," replied the countess.

"A hall! a hall!" cried Murray, springing from his seat, delighted with the proposal.

"I have no objection," answered Wallace; and putting the hand she presented to him into that of Lord de Warenne, he added, "I am not of a sufficiently gay temperament to grace the change; but this earl may not have the same reason for declining so fair a challenge!"

Lady Mar colored with mortification, for she had thought that Wallace would not venture to refuse before so many; but following the impulse of De Warenne's arm, she proceeded to the other end of the hall, where, by Murray's quick arrangement, the younger lords of both countries had already singled out ladies, and were marshaled for the dance.

As the hours moved on, the spirits of Wallace subsided from their usual cheering tone into a sadness which he thought might be noticed; and wishing to escape observation (for he could not explain to those gay ones why scenes like these ever made him sorrowful), and whispering to Mar that he would go for an hour to visit Montgomery, he withdrew, unnoticed by all but his watchful enemy.

De Valence, who hovered about his steps, had heard him inquire of Lady Ruthven why Helen was not present! He was within hearing of this whisper also, and, with a Satanic joy, the dagger shook in his hand. He knew that Wallace had many a solitary place to pass between Snawdoun and the citadel; and the company being too pleasantly absorbed to mark who entered or disappeared, he took an opportunity, and stole out after him.

But for once the impetuous fury of hatred met a temporary disappointment. While De Valence was cowering like a thief under the eaves of the houses, and prowling along the lonely paths to the citadel; while he started at every noise, as if it came to apprehend him for his meditated deed, or rushed forward at the sight of any solitary passenger, whom his eager vengeance almost mistook for Wallace-Wallace himself had taken a different track.

As he walked through the illuminated archways, which led from the hall, he perceived a darkened passage. Hoping by that avenue to quit the palace, unobserved, he immediately struck into it; for he was aware, that should he go the usual way, the crowd at the gate would recognize him, and he could not escape their acclamations. He followed the passage for a considerable time, and at last was stopped by a door. It yielded to his hand, and he found himself at the entrance of a large building. He advanced, and passing a high screen of carved oak, by a dim light, which gleamed from waxen tapers on the altar, he perceived it to be the chapel.

"A happy transition," said he to himself, "from the jubilant scene I have now left; from the grievous scenes I have lately shared! Here, gracious God," thought he, "may I, unseen by any other eye, pour out my heart to thee. And here, before thy footstool, will I declare thanksgiving for thy mercies; and with my tears wash from my soul the blood I have been compelled to shed!"

While advancing toward the altar, he was startled by a voice proceeding from the quarter whither he was going, and with low and gently-breathed fervor, uttering these words: "Defend him, Heavenly Father! Defend him day and night, from the devices of this wicked man; and, above all, during these hours of revelry and confidence, guard his unshielded breast from treachery and death." The voice faltered, and added with greater agitation, "Ah, unhappy me, that I should pluck peril on the head of William Wallace!" A figure, which had been hidden by the rails of the altar, with these words rose, and stretching forth her clasped hands, exclaimed, "But Thou, who knowest I had no blame in this, wilt not afflict me by his danger! Thou wilt deliver him, O God, out of the hand of this cruel foe!"

Wallace was not more astonished at hearing that some one in whom he trusted, was his secret enemy, than at seeing Lady Helen in that place at that hour, and addressing Heaven for him. There was something so celestial in the maid, as she stood in her white robes, true emblems of her own innocence, before the divine footstool, that, although her prayers were delivered with a pathos which told they sprung from a heart more than commonly interested in their object, yet every word and look breathed so eloquently the virgin purity of her soul, the hallowed purpose of her petitions, that Wallace, drawn by the sympathy with which kindred virtues ever attract spirit to spirit, did not hesitate to discover himself. He stepped from the shadow which involved him. The pale light of the tapers shone upon his advancing figure. Helen's eyes fell upon him as she turned round. She was transfixed and silent. He moved forward. "Lady Helen," said he, in a respectful and even tender voice. At the sound, a fearful rushing of shame seemed to overwhelm her faculties; for she knew not how long he might have been in the church, and that he had not heard her beseech Heaven to make him less the object of her thoughts. She sunk on her knees beside the altar, and covered her face with her hands.

The action, the confusion might have betrayed her secret to Wallace. But he only thought of her pious invocations for his safety; he only remembered that it was she who had given a holy grave to the only woman he could ever love; and, full of gratitude, as a pilgrim would approach a saint, he drew near to her. "Holiest of earthly maids," said he, kneeling down beside her, "in this lonely hour, in the sacred presence of Almighty Purity, receive my soul's thanks for the prayers I have this moment heard you breathe for me. They are more precious to me, Lady Helen, than the generous plaudits of my country; they are a greater reward to me than would have been the crown with which Scotland sought to endow me, for do they not give me what all the world cannot-the protection of Heaven?"

"I would pray for it," softly answered Helen, but not venturing to look up.

"The prayer of meek goodness, we know, 'availeth much.' Continue, then, to offer up that incense for me," added he, "and I shall march forth to-morrow with redoubled strength; for I shall think, holy maid, that I have yet a Marion to pray for me on earth as well as one in heaven."

Lady Helen's heart beat at these words, but it was with no unhallowed emotion. She withdrew her hands from her face and, clasping them, looked up. "Marion will indeed echo all my prayers, and He who reads my heart will, I trust, grant them. They are for your life, Sir William Wallace," added she, turning to him with agitation, "for it is menaced."

"I will inquire by whom," answered he, "when I have first paid my duty at this altar for guarding it so long. And dare I, daughter of goodness, to ask you to unite the voice of your daughter of goodness, to ask you to unite the voice of your gentle spirit with the secret one of mine? I would beseech Heaven for pardon on my own transgressions; I would ask of its mercy to establish the liberty of Scotland. Pray with me, Lady Helen, and the invocations our souls utter will meet the promise of Him who said: 'Where two or three are joined together in prayer, there am I in the midst of them.'"

Helen looked on him with a holy smile; and pressing the crucifix which she held to her lips, bowed her head on it in mute assent. Wallace threw himself prostrate on the steps of the altar; and the fervor of his sighs alone breathed to his companion the deep devotion of his soul. How the time passed he knew not, so was he absorbed in the communion which his spirit held in heaven with the most gracious of beings. But the bell of the palace striking the matin hour, reminded him he was yet on earth; and looking up his eyes met those of Helen. His devotional rosary hung on his arm; he kissed it. "Wear this, holy maid," said he, "in remembrance of this hour!" She bowed her fair neck, and he put the consecrated chain over it. "Let it bear witness to a friendship," added he, clasping her hands in his, "which will be cemented by eternal ties in heaven."

Helen bent her face upon his hands; he felt the sacred tears of so pure a compact upon them; and while he looked up, as if he thought the spirit of his Marion hovered near, to bless a communion so remote from all infringement of the sentiment he had dedicated forever to her, Helen raised her head-and, with a terrible shriek, throwing her arms around the body of Wallace, he, that moment, felt an assassin's steel in his back, and she fell senseless on his breast. He started on his feet; a dagger fell from his wound to the ground, but the hand which had struck the blow he could nowhere see. To search further was then impossible, for Helen lay on his bosom like dead. Not doubting that she had seen his assailant, and fainted from alarm, he was laying her on the steps of the altar, that he might bring some water from the basin of the chapel to recover her, when he saw that her arm was not only stained with his blood, but streaming with her own. The dagger had gashed it in reaching him.

"Execrable villain!" cried he, turning cold at the sight, and instantly comprehending that it was to defend him she had thrown her arms around him, he exclaimed, in a voice of agony, "Are two of the most matchless women the earth ever saw to die for me!" Trembling with alarm, and with renewed grief-for the terrible scene of Ellerslie was now brought in all its horrors before him-he tore off her veil to staunch the blood; but the cut was too wide for his surgery; and, losing every other consideration in fears for her life, he again took her in his arms, and bore her out of the chapel. He hastened through the dark passage, and almost flying along the lighted galleries, entered the hall. The noisy fright of the servants, as he broke through their ranks at the door, alarmed the revelers; and turning round, what was their astonishment to behold the regent, pale and streaming with blood, bearing in his arms a lady apparently lifeless, and covered with the same dreadful hue!

Mar instantly recognized his daughter, and rushed toward her with a cry of horror. Wallace sunk, with his breathless load, upon the nearest bench; and, while her head rested on his bosom, ordered surgery to be brought. Lady Mar gazed on the spectacle with a benumbed dismay. None present durst ask a question, till a priest drawing near, unwrapped the arm of Helen, and discovered its deep wound.

"Who has done this?" cried her father, to Wallace, with all the anguish of a parent in his countenance.

"I know not," replied he; "but I believe, some villain who aimed at my life."

"Where is Lord de Valence?" exclaimed Mar, suddenly recollecting his menaces against Wallace.

"I am here," replied he, in a composed voice; "would you have me seek the assassin?"

"No, no," cried the earl, ashamed of his suspicion; "but here has been some foul work-and my daughter is slain."

"Oh, not so!" cried Murray, who had hurried toward the dreadful group, and knelt at her side. "She will not die-so much excellence cannot die." A stifled groan from Wallace, accompanied by a look, told Murray that he had known the death of similar excellence. With this unanswerable appeal, the young chieftain dropped his head on the other hand of Helen; and, could any one have seen his face buried as it was in her robes, they would have beheld tears of agony drawn from that every-gay heart.

The wound was closed by the aid of another surgical priest, who had followed the former into the hall, and Helen sighed convulsively. At this intimation of recovery, the priest made all, excepting those who supported her, stand back. But, as Lady Mar lingered near Wallace, she saw the paleness of his countenance turn to a deadly hue, and his eyes closing, he sunk back on the bench. Her shrieks now resounded through the hall, and, falling into hysterics, she was taken into the gallery; while the more collected Lady Ruthven remained to attend the victims before her.

At the instant Wallace fell, De Valence, losing all self-command, caught hold of De Warenne's arm, and whispering, "I thought it was sure-long live King Edward!" rushed out of the hall. These words revealed to De Warenne who was the assassin; and though struck to the soul with the turpitude of the deed, he thought the honor of England would not allow him to accuse the perpetrator, and he remained silent.

The inanimate form of Wallace was now drawn from under that of Helen; and, in the act, discovered the tapestry-seat clotted with blood, and the regent's back bathed in the same vital stream. Having found his wound, the priests laid him on the ground; and were administering their balsams, when Helen opened her eyes. Her mind was too strongly possessed with the horror which had entered it before she became insensible, to lose the consciousness of her fears; and immediately looking around with an aghast countenance, her sight met the outstretched body of Wallace. "Oh! is it so?" cried she, throwing herself into the bosom of her father. He understood what she meant. "He lives, my child! but he is wounded like yourself. Have courage; revive, for his sake and for mine!"

"Helen! Helen! dear Helen!" cried Murray, clinging to her hand; "while you live, what that loves you can die?"

While these acclamations surrounded her couch, Edwin, in speechless apprehension, supported the insensible head of Wallace; and De Warenne, inwardly execrating the perfidy of De Valence, knelt down to assist the good friars in their office.

A few minutes longer, and the staunched blood refluxing to the chieftain's heart, he too opened his eyes; and instantly turning on his arm-"What has happened to me? Where is Lady Helen?" demanded he.

At his voice, which aroused Helen, who, believing that he was indeed dead, was relapsing into her former state; she could only press her father's hand to her lips, as if he had given the life she so valued, and bursting into a shower of relieving tears, breathed out her rapturous thanks to God. Her low murmurs reached the ears of Wallace.

The dimness having left his eyes, and the blood (the extreme loss of which, from his great agitation, had alone caused him to swoon), being stopped by an embalmed bandage, he seemed to feel no impediment from his wound; and rising, hastened to the side of Helen. Lord Mar softly whispered his daughter-"Sir William Wallace is at your feet, my dearest child; look on him, and tell him that you live."

"I am well, my father," returned she, in a faltering voice; "and may it indeed please the Almighty to preserve him!"

"I, too, am alive and well," answered Wallace; "but thanks to God, and to you, blessed lady, that I am so! Had not that lovely arm received the greater part of the dagger, it must have reached my heart."

An exclamation of horror at what might have been burst from the lips of Edwin. Helen could have re-echoed it, but she now held her feelings under too severe a rein to allow them so to speak.

"Thanks to the Protector of the just," cried she, "for your preservation! Who raised my eyes to see the assassin! His cloak was held before his face, and I could not discern it; but I saw a dagger aimed at the bank of Sir William Wallace! How I caught it I cannot tell, for I seemed to die on the instant."

Lady Mar having recovered, re-entered the hall just as Wallace had knelt down beside Helen. Maddened with the sight of the man on whom her soul doted, in such a position before her rival, she advanced hastily; and in a voice, which she vainly attempted to render composed and gentle, sternly addressed her daughter-in-law: "Alarmed as I have been by your apparent danger, I cannot but be uneasy at the attendant circumstances; tell me, therefore, and satisfy this anxious company, how it happened that you should be with the regent, when we supposed you an invalid in your room, and were told he was gone to the citadel?"

A crimson blush overspread the cheeks of Helen at this question, for it was delivered in a tone which insinuated that something more than accident had occasioned their meeting, but as innocence dictated, she answered, "I was in the chapel at prayers; Sir William Wallace entered with the same design; and at the moment he desired me to mingle mine with his, this assassin appeared and (she repeated) I saw his dagger raised against our protector, and I saw no more."

There was not a heart present that did not give credence to this account, but the polluted one of Lady Mar. Jealousy almost laid it bare. She smiled incredulously, and turning to the company, "Our noble friends will accept my apology, if in so delicate an investigation, I should beg that my family alone may be present."

Wallace perceived the tendency of her words, and not doubting the impression they might make on the minds of men ignorant of the virtues of Lady Helen, he instantly rose. "For once," cried he, "I must counteract a lady's orders. It is my wish, lords, that you will not leave this place till I explain how I came to disturb the devotions of Lady Helen. Wearied with festivities, in which my alienated heart can so little share, I thought to pass an hour with Lord Montgomery in the citadel; and in seeking to avoid the crowded avenues of the palace, I entered the chapel. To my surprise, I found Lady Helen there, I heard her pray for the happiness of Scotland, for the safety of her defenders; and my mind being in a frame to join in such petitions, I apologized for my unintentional intrusion, and begged permission to mingle my devotions with hers. Nay, impressed and privileged by the sacredness of the place, I presumed still further, and before the altar of purity poured forth my gratitude for the duties she had paid to the remains of my murdered wife. It was at this moment that the assassin appeared. I heard Lady Helen scream, I felt her fall on my breast, and at that instant the dagger entered my back.

"This is the history of our meeting; and the assassin, whomsoever he may be, and how long soever he was in the church, before he sought to perpetrate the deed-were he to speak, and capable of uttering truth, could declare no other."

"But where is he to be found?" intemperately and suspiciously demanded Lady mar.

"If his testimony be necessary to validate mine," returned Wallace, with dignity, "I believe the Lady Helen can point to his name."

"Name him, Helen; name him, my dear cousin," cried Murray, "that I may have some link with thee. O! let me avenge this deed! Tell me his name! and so yield to me all that thou canst now bestow on Andrew Murray!"

There was something in the tone of Murray's voice that penetrated to the heart of Helen. "I cannot name him whom I suspect to any but Sir William Wallace; and I would not do it to him," replied she, "were it not to warn him against future danger. I did not see the assassin's face, therefore, how dare I set you to take vengeance on one who perchance may be innocent? I forgive him, my blood, since Heaven has spared to Scotland its protector."

"If he be a Southron," cried Baron Hilton, coming forward, "name him, gracious lady, and I will answer for it, that were he the son of a king, he would meet death from our monarch for this unknightly outrage."

"I thank your zeal, brave chief," replied she; "but I would not abandon to certain death even a wicked man. May he repent! I will name him to Sir William Wallace alone; and when he knows his secret enemy, the vigilance of his own honor, I trust, will be his guard. Meanwhile, my father, I would withdraw." Then whispering to him, she was lifted in his arms and Murray's and carried from the hall.

As she moved away her eyes met those of Wallace. He arose; but she waved her hand to him, with an expression in her countenance of an adieu so firm, yet so tender, that feeling as if he were parting from a beloved sister, who had just risked her life for him, and whom he might never see again, he uttered not a word to any that were present, but leaning on Edwin, left the hall by an opposite door.

Chapter XLIII.

The Carse of Stirling.



Daybreak gleamed over the sky before the wondering spectators of the late extraordinary scene had dispersed to their quarters.

De Warenne was so well convinced by what had dropped from De Valence, of his having been the assassin, that when they met at sunrise to take horse for the borders, he made him no other salutation than an exclamation of surprise, "not to find him under an arrest for the last night's work!"

"The wily Scot knew better," replied De Valence, "than so to expose the reputation of the lady. He knew that she received the wound in his arms, and he durst not seize me, for fear I should proclaim it."

"He cannot fear that," replied De Warenne, "for he has proclaimed it himself. He has told every particular of his meeting with Lady Helen in the chapel, even her sheltering him with her arms; so there is nothing for you to declare but your own infamy. For infamous I must call it, Lord Aymer; and nothing but the respect I owe my country, prevents me pointing the eyes of the indignant Scots to you; nothing but the stigma your exposure would bring upon the English name, could make me conceal the dead."

De Valence laughed at this speech of De Warenne's. "Why, my lord warden," said he, "have you been taking lessons of this doughty Scot, that you talk thus? It was not with such sentiments you overthrew the princes of Wales, and made the kings of Ireland fly before you! You would tell another story were your own interest in question; and I can tell you that any vengeance is not satisfied, I will yet see the brightness of those eyes on which the proud daughter of Mar hangs so fondly, extinguished in death. Maid, or wife, Helen shall be torn from his arms, and if I cannot make her a virgin bride, she shall at least be mine as his widow; for I swear not to be disappointed."

"Shame, De Valence! I should blush to owe my courage to rivalry, or my perseverance in the field to a licentious passion! You know what you have confessed to me were once your designs on Helen Mar."

"Every man according to his nature!" returned De Valence; and shrugging his shoulders, he mounted his horse.

The cavalcade of Southrons now appeared. They were met on the Carse by the regent, who, not regarding the smart of a closing wound, advanced at the head of ten thousand men to see his prisoners over the borders. By Helen's desire, Lord Mar had informed Wallace what had been the threats of De Valence, and that she suspected him to be the assassin. But this suspicion was put beyond a doubt by the evidence of the dagger, which Edwin had found in the chapel; its hilt was enameled with the martlets of De Valence.

At sight of it a general indignation filled the Scottish chiefs, and assembling round their regent, with one breath they demanded that the false earl should be detained and punished as became the honor of nations, for so execrable a breach of all laws, human and divine. Wallace replied that he believed the attack to have been instigated by a personal motive, and therefore, as he was the object, not the state of Scotland, he should merely acquaint the earl that his villainy was known, and let the shame of disgrace be his punishment.

"Ah," observed Lord Bothwell, "men who trample on conscience soon get over shame."

"True," replied Wallace, "but I suit my actions to my mind, not to my enemy's; and if he cannot feel dishonor, I will not so far disparage myself as to think one so base worthy my resentment."

While he was quieting the reawakened indignation of his nobles, whose blood began to boil afresh at sight of the assassin, the Southron lords, conducted by Lord Mar, approached. When that nobleman drew near, Wallace's first inquiry was for Lady Helen. The earl informed him he had received intelligence of her having slept without fever, and that she was not awake when the messenger came off with his good tidings. That all was likely to be well with her was comfort to Wallace; and, with an unruffled brow, riding up to the squadron of Southrons which was headed by De Warenne and De Valence, he immediately approached the latter, and drawing out the dagger, held it toward him: "The next time, sir earl," said he, "that you draw this dagger, let it be with a more knightly aim than assassination!"

De Valence, surprised, took it in confusion, and without answer; but his countenance told the state of his mind. He was humbled by the man he hated; and while a sense of the disgrace he had incurred tore his proud soul, he had not dignity enough to acknowledge the generosity of his enemy in again giving him a life which his treachery had so often forfeited. Having taken the dagger, he wreaked the exasperated vengeance of his malice upon the senseless steel, and breaking it asunder, threw the pieces into the air; while turning from Wallace with an affected disdain, he exclaimed to the shivered weapon, "You shall not betray me again!"

"Nor you betray our honors, Lord de Valence," exclaimed Earl de Warenne; "and therefore, though the nobleness of the William Wallace leaves you at large after this outrage on his person, we will assent our innocence of connivance with the deed; and, as lord warden of this realm, I order you under arrest till we pass the Scottish lines."

"'Tis well," cried Hilton, "that such is your determination, my lord, else no honest man could have continued in the same company with one who has so tarnished the English name."

"No!" cried his brother baron, venerable Blenkinsopp, reining up his steed; "I would forfeit house and lands first."

De Valence, with an ironical smile, looked toward the squadron, which approached to obey De Warenne, and haughtily answered, "Though it be dishonor to march with me out of Scotland, the proudest of you all will deem it an honor to be allowed to return with me hither. I have an eye on those who stand with cap in hand to rebellion. And for you, Sir William Wallace," added he, turning to him, who was also curbing his impatient charger, "I hold no terms with a rebel; and deem all honor that would rid my sovereign and the earth of such lowborn arrogance."

Before Wallace could answer he saw De Valence struck from his horse by the Lochaberax of Edwin. Indignant at the insult offered to his beloved commander, he had suddenly raised his arm, and aiming a blow with all his strength, the earl was immediately stunned and precipitated to the ground.

At sight of the fall of the Southron chief, the Scottish troops, aware of there being some misunderstanding between their regent and the English lords, uttered a shout. Wallace, to prevent accidents, sent instantly to the lines, to appease the tumult, and throwing himself off his horse, hastened to the prostrate earl. A fearful pause reigned throughout the Southron ranks. They did not know but that the enraged Scots would now fall on them, and, in spite of their regent, exterminate them on the spot. The troops were running forward when Wallace's messengers arrived and checked them, and himself, calling to Edwin, stopped his further chastisement of the recovering earl.

"Edwin, you have done wrong," cried he; "give me that weapon which you have sullied by raising it against a prisoner totally in our power."

With a vivid blush the noble boy resigned the weapon to his general; yet, with an unappeased glance on the prostrate De Valence, he exclaimed, "But have you not granted life twice to this prisoner? and has he not, in return, raised his hand against his life and Lady Helen? You pardon him again! and in the moment of your clemency, he insults the Lord Regent of Scotland in the face of both nations! I could not hear this and live without making him feel that you have those about you who will not forgive such crimes."

"Edwin," returned Wallace, "had not the lord regent power to punish? And if he see right to hold his hand, those who strike for him invade his dignity. I should be unworthy the honor of protecting a brave nation, did I stoop to tread on every reptile that stings me in my path. Leave Lord de Valence to the sentence his commander has pronounced, and as an expiation for your having offended both military and moral law this day, you must remain at Stirling till I return into Scotland."

De Valence, hardly awake from the stupor which the blow of the battle-ax had occasioned (for indignation had given to the young warrior the strength of manhood), was raised from the ground; and soon after coming to himself and being made sensible of what had happened, he was taken, foaming with rage and mortification, into the center of the Southron lines.

Alarmed at the confusion he saw at a distance, Lord Montgomery ordered his litter round from the rear to the front, and hearing all that had passed, joined with De Warenne in pleading for the abashed Edwin.

"His youth and zeal," cried Montgomery, "are sufficient to excuse the intemperance of the deed."

"No!" interrupted Edwin; "I have offended and I will explate. Only, my honored lord," said he, approaching Wallace, while he checked the emotion which would have flowed from his eyes, "when I am absent, sometimes remember that it was Edwin's love which hurried him to this disgrace."

"My dear Edwin," returned Wallace, "there are many impetuous spirits in Scotland who need the lesson I now enforce upon you; and they will be brought to maintain the law of honor when they see that their regent spares not its slightest violation, even when committed by his best beloved friend. Farewell till we meet again!"

Edwin kissed Wallace's hand in silence-it was not wet with his tears-and drawing his bonnet hastily over his eyes, he retired into the rear of Lord Mar's party. That nobleman soon after took leave of the regent, who, placing himself at the head of his legions, the trumpets blew the signal of march. Edwin, at the sound which a few minutes before he would have greeted with so much joy, felt his grief-swollen heart give way; he sobbed aloud, and striking his heel on the side of his horse, galloped to a distance, to bide from all eyes the violence of his regrets. The trampling of the departing troops rolled over the ground like receding thunder. Edwin at last stole a look toward the plain; he beheld a vast cloud of dust, but no more the squadrons of his friend.

Chapter XLIV.

The Cheviots.



As Wallace pursued his march along the once fertile and well-peopled valleys of Clydesdale, their present appearance affected him like the sight of a friend whom he had seen depart in all the graces of youth and prosperity, but met again overcome with disease and wretchedness.

The pastures of Carstairs on the east of the river, which used at this season to be whitened with sheep, and sending forth the lowings of abundant cattle; and the vales, which had teemed with reapers rejoicing in the harvest, were now laid waste and silent. The plain presented one wide flat of desolation. Where once was the enameled meadow, a dreary swamp extended its vapory surface; and the road which a happy peasantry no longer trod, lay choked up with thistles and rank grass; while birds and animals of chase would spring from its thickets, on the lonely traveler, to tell him by their wild astonishment that he was distant from even the haunts of men. The remains of villages were visible; but the blackness of ashes marked the walls of the ruined dwellings.

Wallace felt that he was passing through the country in which his Marion had been rifled of her life; and as he moved along, nature all around seemed to have partaken of her death. As he rode over the moors which led toward the district of Crawford Lammington, those hills amidst which the beloved of his soul first drew breath, he became totally silent. Time rolled back; he was no longer the Regent of Scotland, but the fond lover of Marion Braidfoot. His heart beat as it was wont to do in turning his horse down the defile which led direct to Lammington; but the scene was completely changed; the groves in which he had so often wandered with her were gone; they had been cut down for the very purpose of destroying that place, which had once been the abode of beauty and innocence, and of all the tender charities.

One shattered tower alone remained of the house of Lammington. The scathing of fire embrowned its sides, and the uprooted garden marked where the ravager had been. While his army marched before him along the heights of Crawford, Wallace slowly moved forward, musing on the scene. In turning the angle of a shattered wall, his horse started; and the next moment he perceived an aged figure, with a beard white as snow, and wrapped in a dark plaid, emerging from the ground. At sight of the apparition, Murray, who accompanied his friend, and had hitherto kept silent, suddenly exclaimed, "I conjure you, honest Scot, ghost or man, give us a subject for conversation! and, as a beginning, pray tell me to whom this ruined tower belonged?"

The sight of two warriors in the Scottish garb encouraged the old man; and stepping out on the ground, he drew near to Murray. "Ruined, indeed, sir," replied he; "and its story is very sad. When the Southrons, who hold Annandale, heard of the brave acts of Sir William Wallace, they sent an army to destroy this castle and domains, which are his, in right of the Lady Marion of Lammington. Sweet creature! I hear they foully murdered her in Lanark."

Murray was smitten speechless at this information; for had he suspected there was any private reason with Wallace for his silent lingering about this desolate spot, he would rather have drawn him away than have stopped to ask questions.

"And did you know Lady Marion, venerable old man?" inquired Wallace, in a voice so descriptive of what was passing in his heart, that the old man turned toward him; and struck with his noble mien, he pulled off his bonnet, and bowing, answered, "Did I know her? She was nursed on these knees. And my wife, who cherished her sweet infancy, is now within yon brae. It is our only home, for the Southrons burnt us out of the castle, where our young lady left us, when she went to be married to the brave young Wallace. He was as handsome a youth as ever the sun shone upon, and he loved my lady from a boy. I never shall forget the day when she stood on the top of that rock, and let a garland he had made for her fall into the Clyde. Without more ado, never caring because it is the deepest here of any part of the river, he jumps in after it, and I after him; and well I did, for when I caught him by his bonny golden locks, he was insensible. His head had struck against a stone in the plunge, and a great cut was over his forehead. God bless him, a sorry scar it left! but many, I warrant, have the Southrons now made on his comely countenance. I have never seen him since he grew a man."

Gregory, the honest steward of Lammington, was now recognized in this old man's narration; but time and hardship had so altered his appearance, that Wallace could not have otherwise recollected the ruddy face and active figure of his well-remembered companion, in the shaking limbs and pallid visage of the hoary speaker. When he ended, the chief threw himself from his horse. He approached the old man; with one hand he took off his helmet, and with the other putting back the same golden locks, he said, "Was the scar you speak of anything like this?" His face was now close to the eye of Gregory, who in the action, the words, and the mark, immediately recognizing the young playmate of his happiest days, with an almost shriek of joy, threw himself on his neck and wept; then looking up, with tears rolling over his cheeks, he exclaimed, "O Power of Mercy, take me to thyself, since my eyes have seen the deliverer of Scotland!"

"Not so, my venerable friend," returned Wallace; "you must make these desolated regions bloom anew! Decorate them, Gregory, as you would do the tomb of your mistress. I give them to you and yours. Marion and I have no posterity! Let her foster-brother, if he still live-let him be now the Laird of Lammington."

"He does live," replied the old man, "but the shadow of what he was. In attempting, with a few resolute lads, to defend these domains, he was severely wounded. His companions were slain, and I found him on the other side of my lady's garden left for dead. We fled with him to the woods, and there remained till all about here was laid in ashes. Finding the cruel Southrons had made a general waste, yet fearful of fresh incursions, we and others who had been driven from their homes, dug us subterraneous dwellings, and ever since have lived like fairies in the green hillside. My son and his young wife and babes are now in our cavern, but reduced by sickness and want, for famine is here. Alas, the Southrons, in conquering Scotland, have not gained a kingdom, but made a desert!"

"And there is a God who marks," returned Wallace; "I go to reap the harvests of Northumberland. What our enemies have ravished hence in part they shall refund; a few days, and your granaries shall overflow. Meanwhile, I leave you with my friend," said he, pointing to Murray, "at the head of five hundred men. To-morrow he may commence the reduction of every English fortress that yet casts a shade on the stream of our native Clyde; for when the sun next rises, the Southrons will have passed the Scottish borders and then the truce expires."

Gregory fell at his feet, and begged that he be allowed to bring his Nannie to see the husband of her once dear child.

"Not now," replied Wallace, "I could not bear the interview-she shall see me when I return."

He then spoke apart to Murray, who cheerfully acquiesced in a commission that promised him not only the glory of being a conqueror, but the private satisfaction, he hoped, of driving the Southron garrison out of his own paternal castle. To send such news to his noble father at Stirling, would indeed be a wreath of honor to his aged and yet warlike brow. It was then arranged between the young chief and his commander that watchtowers should be thrown up on every conspicuous eminence which skirted the Scottish borders; whence concerted signals of victories, or other information, might be severally interchanged. These preliminaries adjusted, the regent's bugle brought Ker and Sir John Graham to his side. The appointed number of men was left with Murray; and Wallace, joining his other chieftains, bade his friend and honest servant adieu.

He now awakened to a sense of the present scene, and speeded his legions over his and dale, till they entered on the once luxuriant banks of the Annan-this territory of some of the noblest in Scotland, till Bruce, their chief, deserted them. It lay in more terrific ruin than even the tracts he had left. There reigned the silence of the tomb; there existed the expiring agonies of men left to perish. Recent marks of devastation smoked from the blood-stained earth; and in the midst of a barren waste, a few houseless wretches rushed forward at the sight of the regent, threw themselves before his horse, and begged a morsel of food for their famishing selves and dying infants. "look," cried an almost frantic mother, holding toward him the living skeleton of a child; "my husband was slain by the Southrons, who hold Lochmaben Castle; my subsistence was carried away, and myself turned forth, to give birth to this child on the rocks. We have fed till this hour on the wild berries; but I die, and my child expires before me!" A second group, with shrieks of despair, cried aloud, "Here are our young ones exposed to equal miseries. Give us bread, Regent of Scotland, or we perish!"

Wallace turned to his troops: "Fast for a day, my brave friends," cried he; "lay the provisions you have brought with you before these hapless people. To-morrow you shall feed largely on Southron tables."

He was instantly obeyed. As his men marched on, they threw their loaded wallets amongst the famishing groups; and, followed by their blessings, descended with augmented speed the ravaged hills of Annandale. Dawn was brightening the dark head of Brunswark, as they advanced toward the Scottish boundary. At a distance, like a wreath of white vapors, lay the English camp, along the southern bank of the Esk. At this sight, Wallace ordered his bugles to sound. They were immediately answered by those of the opposite host. The heralds of both armies advanced, and the sun rising from behind the eastern hills, shone full upon the legions of Scotland, winding down the romantic precipices of Wauchope.

Two hours arranged every preliminary to the exchange of prisoners; and when the clarion of the trumpet announced that each party was to pass over the river to the side of its respective country, Wallace stood in the midst of his chieftains to receive the last adieus of his illustrious captives. When De Warenne approached, the regent took off his helmet; the Southron had already his in his hand. "Farewell, gallant Scot," said he, "if aught could imbitter this moment of recovered freedom, it is that I leave a man I so revere, still confident in a finally hopeless cause!"

"It would not be the less just were it indeed desparate," replied Wallace; "but had not Heaven shown on which side it fought, I should not now have the honor of thus bidding the brave De Warenne farewell."

The earl passed on, and the other lords, with grateful and respectful looks, paid their obeisance. The litter of Montgomery drew near-the curtains were thrown open-Wallace stretched out his hand to him: "The prayers of sainted innocence are thine!"

"Never more shall her angel spirit behold me here, as you now behold me," returned Montgomery; "I must be a traitor to virtue, before I ever again bear arms against Sir William Wallace!"

Wallace pressed his hand, and they parted.

The escort which guarded De Valence advanced; and the proud earl, seeing where his enemy stood, took off his gauntlet, and throwing it fiercely toward him, exclaimed, "Carry that to your minion Ruthven, and tell him the hand that wore it will yet be tremendously revenged!"

As the Southron ranks filed off toward Carlisle, those of the returning Scottish prisoners approached their deliverer. Now it was that the full clangor of joy burst from every breast and triumph-breathing instrument in the Scottish legions; now it was that the echoes rung with loud huzzas of "Long live the valiant Wallace, who brings our nobles out of captivity! Long live our matchless regent!"

As these shouts rent the air, the Lords Badenoch and Athol drew near. The princely head of the former bent with proud acknowledgement to the mild dignity of Wallace. Badenoch's penetrating eye saw that it was indeed the patriotic guardian of his country to whom he bowed, and not the vain affector of regal power. At his approach, Wallace alighted form his horse, and received his offered hand and thanks with every grace inherent in his noble nature. "I am happy" returned he, "to have been the instrument of recalling to my country one of the princes of her royal blood." "And while one drop of it exists in Scotland," replied Badenoch, "its possessors must acknowledge the bravest of our defenders in Sir William Wallace."

Athol next advanced, but his gloomy countenance contradicted his words when he attempted to utter a similar sense of obligation. Sir John Monteith was eloquent in his thanks. And Sir William Maitland was not less sincere in his gratitude, than Wallace was in joy, at having given liberty to so near a relation of Helen Mar. The rest of the captive Scots, to the number of several hundred, were ready to kiss the feet of the man who thus restored them to their honors, their country, and their friends, and Wallace bowed his happy head under a shower of blessings which poured on him from a thousand grateful hearts.

In pity to the wearied travelers, he ordered tents to be pitched; and for the sake of their distant friends, he dispatched a detachment to the top of Langholm Hill, to send forth a smoke in token to the Clydesdale watch, of the armistice being ended. He had hardly seen it ascend the mountain, when Graham arrived from reconnoitering, and told him that an English army of great strength was approaching by the foot of the more southern hills, to take the reposing Scots by surprise.

"They shall find us ready to receive them," was the prompt reply of Wallace; and his actions were ever the companions of his words. Leaving the new-arrived Scots to rest on the banks of the Esk, he put himself at the head of five thousand men; and dispatching a thousand more, with Sir John Graham, to pass the Cheviots, and be in ambush to attack the Southrons when he should give the signal, he marched swiftly forward, and soon fell in with some advanced squadrons of the enemy, amongst the recesses of those hills. Little expecting such a rencounter, they were marching in defiles upon the lower ridgy craigs, to avoid the swamps which occupied the broader way.

At sight of the Scots, Lord Percy, the Southron commander, ordered a party of his archers to discharge their arrows. The artillery of war being thus opened afresh, Wallace drew his bright sword, and waving it before him, just as the sun set, called aloud to his followers. His inspiring voice echoed from hill to hill; and the higher detachments of the Scots, pouring downward with the resistless impetuosity of their own mountain streams, precipitated their enemies into the valley; while Wallace, with his pikemen, charging the horses in those slippery paths, drove the terrified animals into the morasses, where some sunk at once, and others, plunging, threw their riders, to perish in the swamp.

Desperate at the confusion which now ensued, as his archers fell headlong from the rocks, and his cavalry lay drowning before him, Lord Percy called up his infantry; they appeared, but though ten thousand strong, the determined Scots met their first ranks breast to breast; and leveling them with their companions, rushed on the rest with the force of a thunder-storm. It was at this period, that the signal was given from the horn of Wallace; and the division of Graham, meeting the retreating Southrons as they attempted to form behind the hill, completed their defeat. The slaughter became dreadful, the victory decisive. Sir Ralph Lattimer, the second in command, was killed in the first onset; and Lord Percy himself, after fighting as became his brave house, fled, covered with wounds, toward Alnwick.

Chapter XLV.

Lochmaben Castle.



This being the seasons of harvest in the northern counties of England, Wallace carried his reapers, not to lay their sickle to the field, but, with their swords, to open themselves a way into the Southron granaries.

The careful victor, meanwhile, provided for the wants of his friends on the other side of the Esk. The plunder of Percy's camp was dispatched to them; which being abundant in all kinds of provisions, was more than sufficient to keep them in ample store till they could reach Stirling. From that point, the released chiefs had promised their regent they would disperse to their separate estates, collect recruits, and reduce the distracted state of the country into some composed order. Wallace had disclosed his wish, and mode of effecting this renovation of public happiness, before he left Stirling. It contained a plan of military organization, by which each youth, able to bear arms, should not only be instructed in the dexterous use of the weapons of war, but in the duties of subordination, and above all, have the nature of the rights for which he was to contend explained to him.

"They only require to be thoroughly known, to be regarded as inestimable," added he; "but while we raise around us the best bulwark of any nation, a brave and well-disciplined people; while we teach them to defend their liberties, let us see that they deserve them. Let them be men, contending for virtuous independence; not savages, fighting for licentious unrestraint. We must have our youth of both sexes, in towns and villages, from the castle to the cot, taught the saving truths of Christianity. From that root will branch all that is needful to make them useful members of the state-virtuous and happy. And, while war is in our hands, let us in all things prepare for peace, that the sword may gently bend into the sickle, the dirk to the pruning-hook."

There was an expansive providence in all this, a concentrating plan of public weal, which few of the nobles had ever even glanced at, as a design conceivable for Scotland. There were many of these warrior chiefs who could not even understand it.

"Ah! my lords," replied he to their warlike objections, "deceive not yourselves with the belief that by the mere force of arms, a nation can render itself great and secure. Industry, temperance, and discipline amongst the people; with moderation and justice in the higher orders, are the only aliments of independence. They bring you riches and power, which make it the interest of those who might have been your enemies to court your friendship."

The graver council at Stirling had received his plan with enthusiasm. And when, on the day of his parting with the released chiefs on the banks of the Esk, with all the generous modesty of his nature, he submitted his design to them, rather to obtain their approbation as friends, than to enforce it with the authority of a regent; when they saw him, thus coming down from the dictatorship to which his unrivaled talents had raised him, to equal himself still with them, all were struck with admiration, and Lord Badenoch could not but mentally exclaim, "The royal qualities of this man can well afford this expense of humility. Bend as he will, he has only to speak, to show his superiority over all, and to be sovereign again."

There was a power in the unostentatious virtues of Wallace, which, declaring themselves rather in their effects than by display, subdued the princely spirit of Badenoch; and, while the proud chief recollected how he had contemned the pretensions of Bruce, and could not brook the elevation of Baliol; how his soul was in arms when, after he had been persuaded to acknowledge the supremacy of Edward, the throne was given to one of his rivals; he wondered at himself to find that his very heart bowed before the gentle and comprehensive wisdom of an untitled regent.

Athol alone, of the group, seemed insensible to the benefits his country was deriving from its resistless protector; but he expressed his dissent from the general sentiment with no more visible sign than a cold silence.

When the messenger from Wallace arrived on the banks of the Esk with so large a booty, and the news of his complete victory over the gallant Percy, the exultation of the Scottish nobles knew no bounds.

On Badenoch opening the regent's dispatches, he found they repeated his wish for his brave coadjutors to proceed to the execution of the plan they had sanctioned with their approbation; they were to march directly for Stirling, and on their way dispense the superabundance of the plunder amongst the perishing inhabitants of the land. He then informed the earl, that while the guard he had left him with would escort the liberated Scots beyond the Forth, the remainder of the troops should be thus disposed: Lord Andrew Murray was to remain chief in command in Clydesdale; Sir Eustace Maxwell, to give up the wardship of Douglas to Sir John Monteith; and then advance into Annandale, to assist Sir Roger Kirkpatrick, who must now have begun the reduction of the castles in the west of that province. At the close of this account, Wallace added, that himself, with his brave band, were going to traverse the English counties to the Tees' mouth; and should Heaven bless his arms, he would send the produce round by the Berwick fleet, to replenish the exhausted stores of the Highlands. "Next year," continued he, "I trust they will have ample harvests of their own."

And what Wallace said he hoped to do, he did.

The Southrons' country was panic-struck at the defeat of Percy, his beaten army, flying in all directions before the conquering legions, gave such dreadful and hyperbolical accounts of their might, and of the giant prowess of their leader, that as soon as ever the Scottish spears were seen rising the summit of any hill, or even gleaming along the horizon, every village was deserted, every cot left without inhabitant; and corn, and cattle, and every kind of property fell into the hands of the Scots.

Lord Precy lay immovable with wounds in his castle at Alnwick;** and his hopeless state, by intimidating his followers, contradicted the orders he gave, to face the marauding enemy. Several times they attempted to obey, but as often showed their inability. They collected under arms; but the moment their foe appeared, they fled within the castle walls, or buried themselves in deep obscurities amongst the surrounding hills. Not a sheaf in the fields of Northumberland did the Scots leave, to knead into bread for its earl; not a head of cattle to smoke upon his board. The country was sacked from sea to sea. But far different was its appearance from that of the trampled valleys of Scotland. There, fire had burned up the soil; the hand of violence had leveled the husbandman's cottage; had buried his implements in the ruins; had sacrificed himself on its smoking ashes! There, the fatherless babe wept its unavailing wants, and at its side sat the distracted widow, wringing her hands in speechless misery; for there lay her murdered husband-here, her perishing child!

**This famous castle, of so many heroic generations, is still the princely residence of the head of the house of Percy.

With such sights the heart of Wallace had been pierced, when he passed through the lowland counties of his country; nay, as he scoured the highland districts of the Grampians, even there had he met the foot of barbarian man, and cruel desolation. For thus it was that the Southron garrisons had provisional themselves; by robbing the poor of their bread; and, when they resisted, firing their dwellings, and punishing the refractory with death.

But not so the generous enmity of Sir William Wallace. His commission was, not to destroy, but to save; and though he carried his victorious army to feed on the Southron plains, and sent the harvests of England to restore the wasted fields of Scotland, yet he did no more. No fire blasted his path; no innocent blood cried against him from the ground! When the impetuous zeal of his soldiers, flushed with victory, and in the heat of vengeance, would have laid several hamlets in ashes, he seized the brand from the destroying party, and throwing it into an adjoining brook: "Show yourselves worthy the advantages you have gained," cried he, "by the moderation with which you use them. Consider yourselves as the soldiers of the all powerful God, who alone has conducted you to victory; for, with a few, has he not enabled us to subdue a host? Behave as becomes your high destiny; and debase not yourselves by imitating the hirelings of ambition, who receive, as the wages of their valor, the base privilege to ravage and to murder.

"I wish you to distinguish between a spirit of reprisal, in what I do, and that of retaliation, which actuates your present violence. What our enemies had robbed us of, as far as they can restore, I take again. Their bread shall feed our famishing country; their wool clothe its nakedness. But blood for blood, unless the murderer could be made to bleed, is a doctrine abhorrent to God and to humanity. What justice is there in destroying the habitations and lives of a set of harmless people, because the like cruelty has been committed by a lawless army of their countrymen, upon our unoffending brethren? Your hearts may make the answer. But if they are hardened against the pleadings of humanity, let prudence show your interest in leaving those men alive, and with their means unimpaired, who will produce other harvests, if need be, to fill our scantier granaries.

"Thus I reason with you, and I hope many are convinced; but they who are insensible to argument must fear authority, and I declare that every man who inflicts injury on the houses, or on the persons of the quietest peasantry of this land, shall be punished as a traitor to the state."

According to the different dispositions of men, this reasoning prevailed. And from the end of September (the time when Wallace first entered Northumberland), to the month of November, when (having scoured the counties of England, even to the gates of York) he returned to Scotland, not an offense was committed which could occasion his merciful spirit regret. It was on All Saints Day when he again approached the Esk; and so great was his spoil that his return seemed more like some vast caravan moving the merchandise of half the world, than the march of an army which had so lately passed that river, a famishing, though valourous host.

The outposts of Carlaveroch soon informed Maxwell the lord regent was in sight. At the joyful intelligence a double smoke streamed from every watch-hill in Annandale; and Sir Eustace had hardly appeared on the Solway bank, to meet his triumphant chief, when the eager speed of the rough knight of Torthorald brought him there also. Wallace, as his proud charger plunged into the ford, and the heavy wagons groaned after him, was welcomed to the shore by the shouts, not only of the soldiers which had followed Maxwell and Kirkpatrick, but by the people who came in crowds to hail their preserver. The squalid hue of famine had left every face, and each smiling countenance, beaming with health, security, and gratitude, told Wallace more emphatically than a thousand tongues, the wisdom of the means he had used to regenerate his country.

Maxwell had prepared the fortress of Lochmaben, once the residence of Bruce, for the reception of the regent. And thither Wallace was conducted, in prouder triumph than ever followed the chariot-wheels of Caesar. Blessings were the clarions that preceeded him; and hosts of people, whom he had saved when ready to perish, were voluntary actors in his pageant.

When he arrived in sight of the two capacious lochs, which spread like lucid wings on each side of the castle, he turned to Graham. "What pity," said he, "that the rightful owner of his truly regal dwelling does not act as becomes his blood! He might now be entering its gates as king, and Scotland find rest under its lawful monarch."

"But he prefers being a parasite in the court of a tyrant," replied Sir John; "and from such a school, Scotland would reject its king."

"But he has a son," replied Wallace; "a brave and generous son! I am told by Lord Montgomery, who knew him in Guienne, that a nobler spirit does not exist. On his brows, my dear Graham, we must hope one day to see the crown."

"Then only as your heir, my lord regent," interrupted Maxwell; "for while you live, I can answer for it that no Scot will acknowledge any other ruler."

"I will first eat my own sword," cried Kirkpatrick.

At this moment the portcullis of the gate was raised, and Maxwell falling back to make way for the regent, Wallace had not time to answer a sentiment, now so familiar to him by hearing it from every grateful heart, that he hardly remarked its tendency, a fact the more easily to be believed, from the ambition of such reward never receiving acceptance in his well-principled mind.

Ever pressing toward establishing the happiness of his country, he hastened over the splendid repast that was prepared for him; and dispensing with the ceremonials with which the zeal of Maxwell sought to display his respect for the virtues and station of his commander, he retired with Graham to write dispatches, and to apportion shares of the spoil to the necessities of the provinces. In these duties, his wakeful eye was kept open the greatest part of the night. They for whom he labored slept securely! That thought was rest to him. But they closed not their eyes without praying for the sweet repose of their benefactor. And he found it; not in sleep, but in that peace of heart which the world cannot give.

Chapter XLVI.

Lammington.



Day succeeded day in the execution of these beneficial designs. When fulfilled, the royal halls of Lochmaben did not long detain him who knew no satisfaction but when going about doing good. While he was thus employed, raising with the quickness of magic, by the hands of his soldiers, the lately ruined hamlets into well-built villages-while the gray smoke curled from a thousand russet cottages which now spotted the sides of the snow-clad hills-while all the lowlands, whithersoever he directed his steps, breathed of comfort and abundance-he felt like the father of a large family, in the midst of a happy and vast home, where every eye turned on him with reverence, every lip with gratitude.

He had hardly gone the circuit of these now cheerful valleys, when an embassy from England, which had first touched at Lochmaben, overtook him at the Tower of Lammington. The ambassadors were Edmund, Earl of Arundel (a nobleman who had married the only sister of De Warenne), and Anthony Beck, Bishop of Durham.

At the moment their splendid cavalcade, escorted by a party from Sir Eustace Maxwell, entered the gate of Lammington, Wallace was in the hourly expectation of Edwin, and hearing the trampling of horses, he hastened into the courtyard, attended by Gregory's grandchildren. One was in his arms, two others held by his plaid, and a third played with the sword he had unbuckled from his side. It was a clear frosty day, and the keenness of the air brightened the complexion of Wallace, while it deepened the roses of his infant companions. The leader of the Scottish escort immediately proclaimed to the embassadors that this was the regent. At the sight of so uncourtly a scene the haughty prelate of Durham drew back.

"This man will not understand his own interest," said he, in a disdainful whisper, to Lord Arundel.

"I am inclined to think his estimation of it will be beyond ours." As the earl made this reply, the officer of Maxwell informed Wallace of the names and errand of the illustrious strangers. At the mention of a Southron, the elder children ran screaming into the house, leaving the youngest, who continued on the breast of Wallace.

The bishop drew near.

"We come, Sir William Wallace," cried the prelate, in a tone whose lordly pitch lowered when his surprised eye saw the princely dignity which shone over the countenance of the man whose domestic appearance, when descried at a distance, had excited his contempt; "we come from the King of England, with a message for your private ear."

"And I hope, gallant chief," joined Lord Arundel, "what we have to impart will give peace to both nations, and establish in honor the most generous as well as the bravest of enemies."

Wallace bowed to the earl's compliment (he knew by his title that he must be the brother of De Warenne), and, resigning the child into the arms of Graham, with a graceful welcome he conducted the Southron lords into the hall.

Lord Arundel, looking around, said, "Are we alone, Sir William?"

"Perfectly," he replied, "and I am ready to receive any proposals for peace which the rights of Scotland will allow her to accept."

The earl drew from his bosom a gold casket, and laying it on a table before him, addressed the regent:-"Sir William Wallace, I come to you, not with the denunciation of an implacable liege lord, whom a rash vassal has offended, but in the grace of the most generous of monarchs, anxious to convert a brave insurgent into the loyal friend. My lord the king having heard by letters from my brother-in-law, the Earl de Warenne, of the honorable manner with which you treated the English whom the fate of battle threw into your power, his majesty, instead of sending over from Flanders a mighty army to overwhelm this rebellious kingdom, has deputed me, even as an embassador, to reason with the rashness he is ready to pardon. Also, with this diadem," continued the earl, drawing a circlet of jewels from the casket, "which my brave sovereign tore from the brows of a Saracen prince, on the ramparts of Acre, he sends the assurance of his regard for the heroic virtues of his enemy. And to these jewels, he will add a more efficient crown, if Sir William Wallace will awake from this trance of false enthusiasm, and acknowledge, as he is in duty bound to do, the supremacy of England over this country. Speak but the word, noblest of Scots," added the earl, "and the bishop of Durham has orders from the generous Edward immediately to anoint you king of Scotland-that done, my royal master will support you in your throne against every man who may dare in dispute your authority."

At these words Wallace rose from his seat. "My lord," said he, "since I took up arms for injured Scotland, I have been used to look into the hearts of men; I therefore estimate with every due respect the compliment which this message of your king pays to my virtues. Had he thought that I deserved the confidence of Scotland, he would not have insulted me with offering a price for my allegiance. To be even a crowned vassal of King Edward is far beneath my ambition. Take back the Saracen's diadem; it shall never dishonor the brows of him who has sworn by the cross to maintain the independence of Scotland, or to lay down his life in the struggle!"

"Weigh well, brave sir," resumed the earl, "the consequences of this answer. Edward will soon be in England; he will march hither himself; not at the head of such armies as you have discomfited, but with countless legions; and when he falls upon any country in indignation, the places of its cities are known no more."

"Better for a brave people so to perish," replied Wallace, "than to exist in dishonor."

"What dishonor, noble Scot, can accrue from acknowledging the supremacy of your liege lord; or to what can the proudest ambition in Scotland extend beyond that of possessing its throne?"

"I am not such a slave," cried Wallace, "as to prefer what men might call aggrandizement before the higher destiny of preserving to my country its birthright, independence. To be the guardian of her laws, and of the individual right of every man born on Scottish ground, is my ambition. Ill should I perform the one duty, were I to wrong the posterity of Alexander by invading their throne; and horrible would be my treason against the other, could I sell my confiding country for a name and a bauble into the grasp of a usurper."

"Brand not with so unjust an epithet the munificent Edward!" interrupted Lord Arundel; "let your own noble nature be a witness of his. Put from you all the prejudice which the ill conduct of his officers have excited, and you must perceive that in accepting his terms you will best repay your country's confidence by giving it peace."

"So great would be my damning sin in such an acceptance," cried Wallace, "that I should be abhorred by God and man. You talk of noble minds, earl; look into your own, and will it not tell you that in the moment a people bring themselves to put the command of their actions, and with that, their consciences, into the hands of a usurper (and that Edward is one in Scotland our annals and his tyrannies declare), they sell their birthright and become unworthy the name of men? In that deed they abjure the gift with which God had intrusted them; and justly, the angels of his host depart from them. You know the sacred axiom, Virtue is better than life! By that we are commanded to preserve the one at the expense of the other; and we are ready to obey. Neither the threats nor the blandishments of Edward have power to shake the resolves of those who draw the sword of the Lord and of Gideon!"

"Rebellious man!" exclaimed Beck, who had listened impatiently; and whose haughty spirit could ill brook such towering language being directed to his sovereign; "since you dare quote Scripture to sanction crime, hear my embassage. To meet the possibility of this flagitious obstinacy, I came armed with the thunder of the church, and the indignation of a justly incensed monarch. Accept his most gracious offers, delivered to you by the Earl of Arundel. Here is the cross, to receive your oath of fealty," cried he, stretching it forth, as if he thought his commands were irrestible; "but beware! keep it with a truer faith than did the traitor Baliol, or expect the malediction of Heaven, the exterminating vengeance of your liege lord!"

Wallace was not discomposed by this attack from the stormy prelate. "My Lord of Durham," replied he with his usual tranquil air, "had your sovereign sent me such proposals as became a just king, and were possible for an honest Scot to admit, he should have found me ready to have treated him with the respect due to his rank and honor; but when he demands the sacrifice of my integrity; when he asks me to sign a deed that would again spread this renovated land with devastation, were I to consider the glozing language of his embassy as grace and nobleness. I should belie my own truth, which tramples alike on his menaces and his pretended claims. And I ask you, priest of Heaven! is he a god greater than Jehovah, that I should fear him?"

"And durst thou presume, audacious rebel!" exclaimed Beck "that the light of Israel deign, to shine on a barbarian nation in arms against a hero of the cross? Reprobate that thou art, answer to thine own condemnation? Does not the church declare the claims of Edward to be just! and who dare gainsay her decrees?"

"The voice of Him you pretend to serve! He is no respecter of persons; he raises the poor from the dust; and by his arm the tyrant and his host are plunged into the whelming waves! Bishop, I know in whom I trust. Is the minister greater than his lord, that I should believe the word of a synod against the declared will of God? Neither anathema nor armed thousands shall make me acknowledge the supremacy of Edward. He may conquer the body, but the soul of a patriot he can never subdue."

"Then," cried Beck, suddenly rising, black with choler, and stretching his crosier over the head of Wallace, "as the rod of Moses shed plagues, miseries, and death over the land of Egypt, I invoke the like judgments to fall on this rebellious land, on its blasphemous leader! And thus I leave it my curse."

Wallace smiled as the terrific words fell from the lips of this demon in sacred guise. Lord Arundel observed him. "You despise this malediction, Sir William Wallace! I thought more piety had dwelt with so much military nobleness!"

"I should not regard the curses of a congregated world," replied Wallace, "when my conscience as loudly proclaims that God is on my side. And is he not omniscient, that he should be swayed by the prejudices of men? Does he not read the heart? Is he not master of all causes? And shall I shrink when I know that I hold his commission? Shall I not regard those anathemas even as the artillery with which the adversary would drive me from my post? But did the clouds rain fire, and the earth open beneath me, I would not stir; for I know who planted me here; and as long as he wills me to stand, neither men nor devils can move me hence."

"Thou art incorrigible!" cried Beck.

"I would say, firm," rejoined Arundel, overawed by the majesty of virtue, "could I regard, as he does, the cause he has espoused. But, as it is, noble Wallace," continued he, "I must regret your infatuation; and instead of the peace I thought to leave with you, hurl war, never-ending, extirpating war, upon the head of this devoted nation!" As he spoke, he threw his lance** against the opposite wall, in which it stuck and stood shivering; then taking up the casket, with its splendid contents, he replaced it in his bosom.

**To throw a spear was an ancient mode of denouncing war.

Beck had turned away in wrath from the table, and advancing with a magisterial step to the door, he threw it open; as if he thought, that longer to breathe the same air with the person he had excommunicated, would infect him with his own curses. On opening the door, a group of Scots, who waited in the antechamber, hastened forward. At the sight of the prelate they raised their bonnets, and hesitated to pass. He stood on the threshold, proudly neglectful of their respect. In the next minute, Wallace appeared with Lord Arundel.

"Brave knight," said the earl, "the adieus of a man, as sensible of your private worth as he regrets the errors of your public opinion, abide with you."

"Were Edward sensible to virtue, like his brave subjects," replied the chief, "I should not fear that another drop of blood need be shed in Scotland to convince him of his present injustice. Farewell, noble earl; the generous candor of yourself and of your brother-in-law will ever live in the remembrance of William Wallace."

While he yet spoke, a youth broke from the group before them, and rushing toward the regent, threw himself with a cry of joy at his feet. "My Edwin, my brother!" exclaimed Wallace; and immediately raising him, clasped him in his arms. The throng of Scots who had accompanied their young leader from Stirling, now crowded about the chief; some kneeling and kissing his garments; others ejaculating, with uplifting hands, their thanks at seeing their protector in safety, and with redoubled glory.

"You forgive me, my master and friend?" cried Edwin, forgetting, in the happy agitation of his mind, the presence of the English embassadors.

"It was only as a master I condemned you, my brother," returned Wallace; "every proof of your affection must render you dearer to me; and had it been exerted against an offender not so totally in my power, you would not have met my reprimand. But ever remember that the persons of prisoners are inviolable, for they lie on the bosom of mercy; and who that has honor would take them thence?"

Lord Arundel, who had lingered to observe this short but animated scene, now ventured to interrupt it: "May I ask, noble Wallace," said he, "if this interesting youth be the brave young Ruthven, who distinguished himself at Dumbarton, and who, De Warenne told me, incurred a severe though just sentence from you, in consequence of his attack upon one whom, as a soldier, I blush to name?"

"It is the same," replied Wallace; "the valor and fidelity of such as he are as sinews to my arms, and bring a more grateful empire to my heart than all the crowns which may be in the power of Edward to bestow."

"I have often seen the homage of the body," said the earl; "but here I see that of the soul; and were I a king, I should envy Sir William Wallace!"

"This speech is that of a courtier or a traitor!" suddenly exclaimed Beck, turning with a threatening brow on Lord Arundel. "Beware, earl! for what has now been said must be repeated to the royal Edward; and he will judge whether flattery to this proud rebel be consistent with your allegiance."

"Every word that has been uttered in this conference** I will myself deliver to King Edward," replied Lord Arundel; "he shall know the man on whom he may be forced by justice to denounce the sentence of rebellion; and when the pruissance of his royal arm lays this kingdom at his feet, the virtues of Sir William Wallace may then find the clemency he now contemns!"

Beck did not condescend to listen to the latter part of this explanation; but proceeding to the court-yard, had mounted his horse before his worthier colleague appeared from the hall. Taking a gracious leave of Sir John Graham, who attended him to the door, the earl exclaimed, "What miracle is before me? Not the mighty mover only of this wide insurrection is in the bloom of manhood, but all his general that I have seen appear in the very morning of youth! And you conquer our veterans; by long experience, and hairs grown gray in camps and battles!"

"Then by our morning judge what our day may be," replied Graham; "and show your monarch that as surely as the night of death will in some hour close upon prince and peasant, this land shall never again be overshadowed by his darkness."

"Listen not to their bold treasons!" cried Beck; and setting spurs to his horse, in no very clerical style he galloped out of the gates. Arundel made some courteous reply to Graham; then, bowing to the rest of the Scottish officers who stood around, turned his steed, and followed by his escort, pursued the steps of the bishop along the snow-covered banks of the Clyde.

Chapter XLVII.

Lammington.



When Wallace was left alone with Edwin, the happy youth (after expressing delight that Murray then held his headquarters in Bothwell Castle) took from his bosom two packets; one from Lord Mar, the other from the countess. "My dear cousin," said he, "has sent you many blessings; but I could not persuade her to register even one on paper while my aunt wrote all this. Almost ever since her own recovery, Helen has confined herself to my uncle's sick chamber, now totally deserted by the fair countess, who seems to have forgotten all duties in the adulation of the audience-hall."

Wallace remarked on the indisposition of Mar, and the attention of his daughter, with tenderness. And Edwin, with the unrestrained vivacity of happy friendship, proceeded sportively to describe the regal style which the countess had affected, and the absurd group with which she had welcomed the Earls Badenoch and Athol to their native country. "Indeed," continued he, "I cannot guess what vain idea has taken possession of her; but when I went to Snawdoun, to receive her commands for you, I found her seated on a kind of throne, with ladies standing in her presence, and our younger chieftains thronging the gallery, as if she were the regent himself. Helen entered for a moment, but, amazed, started back, never before having witnessed the morning courts of stepmother."

But Edwin did not relate to his friend all that had passed in the succeeding conference between him and his gentle cousin.

Blushing for her father's wife, Helen would have retired immediately to her own apartments, but Edwin drew her into one of Lady Mar's rooms, and seating her beside him, began to speak of his anticipated meeting with Wallace. He held her hand in his. "My dearest cousin," said he, "will not this tender hand, which has suffered so much for our brave friend, write him one word of kind remembrance? Our queen here will send him volumes."

"Then he would hardly have time to attend to one of mine," replied Helen, with a smile. "Besides, he requires no new assurance to convince him that Helen Mar can never cease to remember her benefactor with the most grateful thoughts."

"And is this all I am to say to him, Helen?"

"All, my Edwin."

"What! not one word of the life you have led since he quitted Stirling? Shall I not tell him that, when this lovely arm no longer wore the livery of its heroism in his behalf, instead of your appearing at the gay assemblies of the countess, you remained immured within your oratory? Shall I not tell him that since the sickness of my uncle you have sat days and nights by his couch-side, listening to the dispatches from the borders-subscribing, with smiles and tears, to his praises of our matchless regent? Shall I not tell him of the sweet maid who lives here the life of a nun for him? Or, must I entertain him with the pomps and vanities of my most unsaintly aunt?"

Helen had in vain attempted to stop him, while, with an arch glance at her mantling blushes, he half whispered these insidious questions. "Ah, my sweet cousin, there is something more at the bottom of that beating heart than you will allow your faithful Edwin to peep into."

Helen's heart did beat violently, both before and after this remark; but conscious, whatever might be there, of the determined purpose of her soul, she turned on him a steady look. "Edwin," said she, "there is nothing in my heart that you may not see. That it reveres Sir William Wallace beyond all other men, I do not deny. But class not my deep veneration with a sentiment which may be jested on! He has spoken to me the language of friendship-you know what it is to be his friend-and having tasted of heaven, I cannot stoop to earth. What pleasure can I find in pageants?-what interest in the admiration of men? Is not his esteem of a value that puts to naught the homages of all else in the world? Do me then justice, my Edwin! believe me, I am no gloomy, no sighing, recluse. I am happy with my thoughts, and thrice happy at the side of my father's couch; for there I meet the image of the most exemplary of human beings, and there I perform the duties of a child to a parent deserving all my love and honor."

"Ah, Helen! Helen!" cried Edwin; "dare I speak the wish of my heart! But you and Sir William Wallace would frown on me, and I may not!"

"Then, never utter it!" exclaimed Helen, turning pale, and trembling from head to foot; too well guessing, by the generous glow in his countenance, what would have been that wish.

At this instant the door opened, and Lady Mar appeared. Both rose at her entrance. She bowed her head coldly to Helen. To Edwin she graciously extended her hand. "Why, my dear nephew, did you not come into the audience-hall?"

Edwin answered, smiling, that as he "did not know the Governor of Stirling's lady lived in the state of a queen, he hoped he should be excused for mistaking lords and ladies in waiting for company; and for that reason, having retired till he could bid her adieu in a less public scene."

Lady mar, with much stateliness, replied, "Perhaps it is necessary to remind you, Edwin, that I am more than Lord Mar's wife. I am not only heiress to the sovereignty of the northern isles, but, like Badenoch, am of the blood of the Scottish kings."

To conceal an irrepressible laugh at this proud folly in a woman, otherwise of shrewd understanding, Edwin turned toward the window; but not before the countess had observed the ridicule which played on his lips. Vexed, but afraid to reprimand one who might so soon resent it, by speaking of her disparagingly to Wallace, she unburdened the swelling of her anger upon the unoffending Helen. Not doubting that she felt as Edwin did, and fancying that she saw the same expression in her countenance. "Lady Helen," cried she, "I request an explanation of that look of derision which I now see on your face. I wish to know whether the intoxication of your vanity dare impel you to despise claims which may one day be established to your confusion."

This attack surprised Helen, who, absorbed in other meditations, had scarcely heard her mother's words to Edwin. "I neither deride you, Lady Mar, nor despise the claims of your kinsman, Badenoch. But since you have condescended to speak to me on the subject, I must, out of respect to yourself, and duty to my father, frankly say, that the assumption of honors not legally in your possession may excite ridicule on him, and even trouble to our cause."

Provoked at the just reasoning of this reply and at being misapprehended with regard to the object with whom she hoped to share all the reflected splendors of a throne, Lady Mar answered, rather inconsiderately, "Your father is an old man, and has outlived every noble emulation. He neither understands my actions, nor shall he control them." Struck dumb by this unexpected declaration, Helen suffered her to proceed. "And as to Lord Badenoch giving me the rank to which my birth entitled me, that is a foolish dream-I look to a greater hand."

"What!" inquired Edwin, with a playful bow, "does my highness aunt expect my uncle to die, and that Bruce will come hither to lay the crown of Scotland at her feet?"

"I expect nothing of Bruce, nor of your uncle," returned she, with a haughty rearing of her head; "but I look for respect from the daughter of Lord Mar, and from the friend of Sir William Wallace."

She rose from her chair, and presenting Edwin with a packet for Wallace, told Helen she might retire to her own room.

"To my father's I will, madam," returned she.

Lady Mar colored at this reproof, and, turning to Edwin, more gently said, "You know that the dignity of his situation must be maintained; and while others attend his couch, I must his reputation."

"I have often heard that 'Fame is better than life!'" replied Edwin, still smiling; "and I thank Lady mar for showing me how differently people may translate the same lesson. Adieu, dear Helen!" said he, touching her mantling cheek with his lips.

"Farewell," returned she, "may good angels guard you!"

The substance of the latter part of this scene Edwin did relate to Wallace. He smiled at the vain follies of the countess, and broke the seal of her letter. It was in the same style with her conversation; at one moment declaring herself his disinterested friend, in the next, uttering wild professions of neverending attachment. She deplored the sacrifice which had been made of her, when quite a child, to the doting passion of Lord Mar; and complained of his want of sympathy with any of her feelings. Then picturing the happiness which must result from the reciprocal love of congenial hearts, she ventured to show how truly hers would unite with Wallace's. The conclusion of this strange epistle told him that the devoted gratitude of all her relations of the house of Cummin was ready, at any moment, to relinquish their claims on the crown, to place it on brows so worthy to wear it.

The words of this letter were so artfully and so persuasively penned, that had not Edwin described the inebriated vanity of Lady Mar, Wallace might have believed that she was ambitious only for him, and that could she share his heart, his throne would be a secondary object. To establish this deception in his mind, she added, "I live here as at the head of a court, and fools around me think I take pleasure in it; but did they look into my actions, they would see that I serve while I seem to reign. I am working in the hearts of men for your advancement."

But whether this were her real motive or not, it was the same to Wallace; he felt that she would always be, were she even free, not merely the last object in his thoughts, but the first in his aversion. Therefore, hastily running over her letter, he recurred to a second perusal of Lord Mar's. In this he found satisfactory details of the success of his dispositions. Lord Lochawe had possessed himself of the western coast of Scotland, from the Mull of Kintyre, to the furthest mountains of Glenmore. There the victorious Lord Ruthven had met him, having completed the recovery of the Highlands, by a range of conquests from the Spey to the Murray frith and Inverness-shire. Lord Bothwell, also, as his colleague, had brought from the shore of Ross and the hills of Caithness, every Southron banner which had disgraced their embattled towers.

Graham was sent for by Wallace to hear these pleasant tidings.

"Ah!" cried Edwin, in triumph, "not a spot north of the Forth now remains, that does not acknowledge the supremacy of the Scottish lion!"

"Nor south of it either," returned Graham; "from the Mull of Galloway to my gallant father's government on the Tweed; from the Cheviots to the Northern Ocean, all now is our own. The door is locked against England, and Scotland must prove unfaithful to herself before the Southrons can again set feet on her borders."

The more private accounts were not less gratifying to Wallace; for he found that his plans for disciplining and bringing the people into order were everywhere adopted, and that in consequence, alarm and penury had given way to peace and abundance. To witness the success of his comprehensive designs, and to settle a dispute between Lord Ruthven and the Earl of Athol, relative to the government of Perth, Lord Mar strongly urged him (since he had driven the enemy so many hundred miles into their own country) to repair immediately to the scene of controversy. "Go," added the earl, "through the Lothians, and across the Queens ferry, directly into Perthshire. I would not have you come to Stirling, lest it should be supposed that you are influenced in your judgment either my myself or my wife. But I think there cannot be a question that Lord Ruthven's services to the great cause invest him with a claim which his opponent does not possess. Lord Athol has none beyond that of superior rank; but being the near relation of my wife, I believe she is anxious for his elevation. Therefore come not near us, if you would avoid female importunity, and spare me the pain of hearing what I must condemn."

Wallace now recollected a passage in Lady Mar's letter which, though not speaking out, insinuated how she expected he would decide. She said: "As your interest is mine, my noble friend, all that belongs to me is yours. My kindred are not withheld in the gift my devoted heart bestows on you. Use them as your own; make them bulwarks around your power, the creatures of your will, the instruments of your benevolence, the defenders of your rights."

Well pleased to avoid another rencounter with this lady's love and ambition, Wallace sent off the substance of these dispatches to Murray; and next morning, taking a tender leave of the venerable Gregory and his family, with Edwin and Sir John Graham, he set off for the Frith of Forth.

Chapter XLVIII.

Loch Awe.



It was on the eve of St. Nicholas that the boat which contained Wallace drew near to the coast of Fife. A little of the right towered the tremendous precipice of Kinghorn.

"Behold, Edwin," said he, "the cause of all our woe! From those horrible cliffs fell the best of kings, the good Alexander. My father accompanied him in that fatal ride, and was one of the unhappy group who had the evil hap to find his mangled body among the rocks below."

"I have heard," observed Graham, "that the sage of Ercildown prophesied this dreadful calamity to Scotland."

"He did prognosticate," replied Wallace, "that on the eighteenth of April, a storm should burst over this land which would lay the country in ruins. Fear seized the farmers; but his prophecy regarded a nobler object than their harvests. The day came, rose unclouded, and continued perfectly serene. Lord March, to whom the seer had presaged the event, at noon reproached him with the unlikeliness of its completion. But even at the moment he was ridiculing the sage, a man on a foaming steed arrived at the gate, with tidings that the king had accidentally fallen from the precipice of Kinghorn, and was killed. 'This,' said the Lord of Ercildown, 'is the scathing wind and dreadful tempest which shall long blow calamity and trouble on the realm of Scotland!' And surely his words have been verified, for still the storm rages around our borders-and will not cease, I fear, till the present dragon of England be laid as low as our noble lion was by that mysterious blast."**

**Alexander III. was killed in this manner on the 18th of April, 1290, just seven years before the consequent calamities of his country made it necessary for Wallace to rise in its defense.

The like discourse held the friends till they landed at Roseyth Castle, where they lodged for the night; and next morning recommencing their journey at daybreak, they crossed the Lomonds under a wintery sun, and entered Perth in the midst of a snow-storm.

The regent's arrival soon spread throughout the province, and the hall of the castle was speedily crowded with chieftains, come to pay their respects to their benefactor; while an army of grateful peasantry from the hills filled the suburbs of the town, begging for one glance only of their beloved lord. To oblige them, Wallace mounted his horse, and between the Lords Ruthven and Athol, with his bonnet off, rode from the castle to the populace-covered plain, which lay to the west of the city. He gratified their affectionate eagerness by this condescension, and received in return the sincere homage of a thousand grateful hearts. The snow-topped Grampians echoed with the proud acclamations of "Our deliverer," "Our prince," "The champion of Scotland," "The glorious William Wallace!" and the shores of the Tay resounded with similar rejoicings at sight of him who made the Scottish seamen lords of the Northern Ocean.