The Scottish Chiefs by Jane Porter (1776-1850). Philadelphia: Porter & Coates, 1875. (Copyright, 1810).
"And with the extinction of that breath, Kirkpatrick," cried Wallace, "let your fell revenge perish also. For your own honor, commit no indignities on the body you have slain."
Scottish Chiefs, p. 294.
PHILADELPHIA: PORTER & COATES.
"They clung to his garments as he rode along; and the women, with their children, throwing themselves on their knees in his path, implored him not to leave them to the inroads of a ravager; not to abandon them to the tyranny of their own lords."
Scottish Chiefs, p. 482.
PHILADELPHIA: PORTER & COATES.
AUTHORESS OF "THADDEUS OF WARSAW," ETC. ETC.
"There comes a voice that awakes my soul. It is the voice of years that are gone; they roll before me with their deeds."–OSSIAN.
ILLUSTRATED BY F. O. C. DARLEY.
PHILADELPHIA:
PORTER & COATES.
1875.
PRESS OF
HENRY B. ASHMEAD,
1102 and 1104 Sansom St.
A
TO THE STANDARD EDITION OF
A. D. 1831.
IN seeking to go back, by the traces of recollection, to the period when the first impression of the heroes which form the story of the Scottish Chiefs was made on my mind, I am carried so completely into the scenes of my infancy, that I feel like one of the children old tales tell of, who, being lost in a wood, tries to find her way home again, by the possibly preserved track of a few corn seeds she had chanced to scatter on the ground as she came.
To wander in these memories, has, however, a pleasure of its own, many pleasant places presenting themselves to stop at, and thence to review with a sweet sadness, through the long vale of past days, some distant, lovely scene, under the soul-hallowed twilight of time.–Such scenes are peopled with beloved forms, living there before our heart's eye; but, in reality, long removed from us into an eternal paradise.
Born on the border lands of Scotland, my mother, in an early widowhood, took her children thither, then almost infants: to bring them up in good air, and in the future advantage of a good education at a moderate expense. But in Scotland, it is not the "pastors and masters" only who educate the people; there is a spirit of wholesome knowledge in the country, pervading all ranks, which passes from one to the other like the atmosphere they breathe; and I may truly say, that I was hard y six years of age when I first heard the names of William Wallace and Robert Bruce:–not from gentlemen and ladies, readers of history; but from the maids in the nursery, and the serving-man in the kitchen: the one had their songs of "Wallace wight!" to lull my baby sister to sleep: and the other his tales of "Bannockburn," and "Cambus-Kenneth," to entertain my young brother,–keeping his eager attention awake evening after evening, often to a late hour, and sending him to his bed, still asking for more, to see the heroes in his dreams.
I remember with delight even now how I was amused for hours in the same way by a venerable old woman called Luckie Forbes; who lived in a humble but comfortable occupation, near some beautiful green banks which rose in natural terraces behind my mother's house; and who, often meeting me there when playing about, would walk by me, and talk to me, with her knitting in her hand; or I used to run to her own little home, and sit down on a stool by her side, while she told me of the wonderful deeds of William Wallace:–of his fighting for Scotland, against as many cruel tyrants as those whom Abraham overcame when he recovered Lot and all his herds and flocks from the five robber-kings, in the vale that was afterwards called the king's dale because of that victory. My lowly instructress never omitted an opportunity of mingling a pious allusion with her narrations. In like manner, at many a cotter's fireside in Scotland, the seed of the bread for this life and of that which is to come are sown together. From this custom of hers, I often listened to her with an awful reverence, as well as with delighted interest in the events of her stories.
She described the person of Wallace from head to foot, as if she had seen him; telling me how comely he was, and how lofty in spirit; and that no temptation from "bonnie leddy" or powerful prince could ever bribe him from the cause of Scotland. But she seemed to have most satisfaction in talking of the friendship between Wallace and Bruce; and she dwelt on it over and over again, comparing it with that of David and Jonathan "whose souls were knit together, and whose love for each other was wonderful, passing the love of women"–"My bonnie bairn," said she, "there is a friend that sticketh closer than a brother."
I never can forget that dear old woman; so shrewd, yet simple-minded, and cheerfully religious: she performed her humble duties with activity and content; her recreation, and "exceeding great reward," was reading her Bible, which she did every day. I do not recollect ever seeing any other book in her house; though she knew the history of Scotland, and the biography of its great families, as accurately as if the top of her muckle kist, on which her Bible lay, had been filled with historic chronicles. Luckie Forbes was not singular in this simplicity of book-learning and comprehensive knowledge with regard to her own country. I remember to have met much of the same amongst most of the Scotch of the lower orders with whom whether as a child or in later years, I became acquainted. I do not say that I did not hear of the "doughty deeds" of her favorite heroes from the lips of our revered school-instructor, Mr. Fulton, of Niddry's Wynd, whose lessons were always chosen from the noblest subjects; nor, indeed, from occasional references, made by several accomplished scholars and esteemed friends who visited my honored mother's unpretending tea-table:–but I must avow, that to Luckie Forbes's familiar, and even endearing, manner of narrating the lives of William Wallace and his dauntless followers; her representation of their heart-sacrifices for the good of their country, filling me with an admiration and a reverential amazement, like her own; and calling forth my tears and sobs, when she told of the deaths of some, and of the cruel execution of the virtuous leader of them all;–to her I must date my early and continued enthusiasm in the character of Sir William Wallace! and in the friends his truly hero-soul "delighted to honor."
But Scotland, at the time especially when we were gathering our first aliments of mental existence there, might have been particularly designated "the land of enthusiasm for all gallant and disinterested emotions." I should say, of generous principles! when we revert to the primary source of some of our regretted misdirected emotions of this order; such as compassion for the unfortunate defence of the weaker side, which, unwittingly, too often would impede the natural march of a just change in the order of men's destinies.
At the time I speak of, many of the widows and orphans, who had been made such by the eventful struggle for the British crown in the year 1745, were still existing. The widows of the fallen or executed brave men, nobles or gentry, who had adhered through every peril to the cause of the Stuarts, and so perished with it, lived in dignified poverty, in the remote alleys and by-places of their own once regal Edinburgh; and the accidental sight of any of these noble ladies, looking out of her uncurtained window from some garret-height in her obscure dwelling, often arrested my attention, and bowed my little knee in curtseying respect, when walking up the reverenced close with Bel Johnston, my young sister's nurse. She then told, how the lords of those ladies died in defence of the rights of Prince Charles; and that she had heard that the heads of some of them were yet to be seen stuck through with spikes, on a great bar, in the city of London; and that their ghosts haunted the spot, and never could be laid till those heads were given up, and sent back to Scotland, to be buried with their kindred.
These venerable ladies just spoken of, the still honored relics of a departed or dispossessed nobility, usually appeared in a plain but suitable attire to their age and remembered gentility; but I only saw their heads, coifed in a milk-white mutch –that is, a close-crowned cap, tied under the chin–or with a little black silk hood, covering their silver hairs. One, however, of these noble widows I remember to have seen more than once, nearer than from her window. She used to visit a family who lived in the square we inhabited; and I then remarked her as a person of great age, of a feeble step, but a majestic though slender form; dressed in a long tartan plaid, reaching from the top of her head to the sole of her foot, and clasped under the chin with a large brooch of some costly materials, for it sparkled as the sun shone on it. She walked with a short stick, and always unattended; nevertheless, she was no less a personage than either the Duchess of Perth, Lady Galloway, or the Lady Lovatt: one of the three she was, but which I cannot now charge my memory to say undoubtingly; having, at the time, heard so much about them all, 1 am now somewhat confused in my recollections respecting them individually.
But there was one interesting person, whom I chanced to meet in a. most extraordinary manner, in the same little square, and about whose identity I am perfectly certain. However, I must premise, that the small enclosure here aggrandized with the title of a square did not contain more than seven houses; built, not like the usual style of the old town for many families under one roof, but each to commodiously contain one family only: and my mother's comfortable abode there, long and low, stood singly at the head of the square; almost occupying the whole of the space, being merely flanked on each side by an opening to the pleasant green banks I before mentioned, and from which a delightful view was commanded of the Frith of Forth. The distinguished Lord Elchies had lived in our house; and other persons of note having inhabited those of our neighbors, no small respect was attached to our little square. It was bounded on one side, near to the gates of entrance, by a wall of the well-known High School of Edinburgh; and from the privacy in which those seldom opened gates kept the square the children of its inhabitants were allowed, without any apprehension, to play by themselves on the grass-plot in its centre. Indeed, so very small a postern door was left open for common egress, that few strangers found their way in; therefore, the appearance of any, when they did come, was the more likely to excite the notice even of a child.
One evening, as myself and my brother, who was then a flaxen headed little fellow, dressed in kilt and tartans, were playing on the grass-plot just described, I saw a strange gentleman enter the postern; and, while we continued at our amusement, we sometimes looked up to remark on him to each other, as he walked to and fro in the pathway beyond the grass: for he appeared very different from the usual order of gentlemen we had seen. He was a person of a slight figure, dressed in faded mourning, and with the extraordinary appendage to such a habit, of a plaid scarf tied round him in the military fashion. When he drew near, we saw that the scarf was much discolored, and torn. He held a rose in his hand, to which at times he seemed earnestly talking. Sometimes he walked fast, sometimes slow; but, as his step was feeble, a child might easily conclude he must be either ill or old, or perhaps both.
After a while, he sat down on a broken bar of the wooden railing which had formerly surrounded the grass-plot; he took off his hat, wiped his forehead with a handkerchief, which he had taken from his bosom, after carefully placing his rose there. His hair was of silver whiteness; and it reminded me of my dear, kind grandfather, who had not been long dead. My brother and I threw down the gowans we had been gathering, and ran to him. Taking his hand, we asked him to go in with us to our mother, who would be glad to see him, as we were. I never shall forget that poor stranger's countenance and manner when we spoke to him thus, and hung by his hand; nor can I ever forget that hand, so small, so white, and soft, as I caressed it in our beseechings that he would go in with us; for we saw tears stealing down his cheeks while, unanswering, he gazed upon us. Our young eyes looked with admiring pity upon his face. Its skin seemed soft as his hand, and was fair even to lily paleness, excepting where many small blue veins traversed his delicately turned chin. In short, every feature of that faded face had been moulded to beauty. The eyes, of a then dimmed azure, were sweet and penetrating; his gray hairs, or rather locks, of snow, hung scattered over them. There were no wrinkles on his brow, or on his cheek; but there was a marking–I know not what to call it–that told, youth was fled! Sorrow, too, had stamped its characters. Children as we were, we knew its signature; we had read it often on the brow nearest and dearest to us.
While we were still preferring our unavailing petitions, our mother herself discerned us and our companion from her parlor window, and, attracted by the extraordinary appearance of the stranger, came out herself and approached us. I met her eagerly, telling her of the poor gentleman's fatigue and tears, and yet refusal to go in and rest with her. She drew near, and her persuasions were soon successful. He rose languidly from the broken rail; my brother offered him his shoulder to lean on; he placed the little white hand there, and was led into the house. Seated in our parlor, while the refreshment my mother had ordered was spreading before him, his eyes roamed around the apartment, and fixed where my dear and lamented father's sword hung, over a large military sketch of the two armies' positions at the battle of Minden. When the servant left the room, my mother invited her guest to eat; but his attention could not be withdrawn from the objects on which he looked. While he was gazing there, my brother and I were prattling the history we had often heard of that battle; and telling how our mamma could show him some curious trophies of the victory, which had been found in a French prince's tent, and given to our dear papa next day. * The stranger smiled mournfully upon us, stroking our heads; then told my mother, with much agitation, that he had been a soldier in his youth.
"I, too, fought, and fell! " cried he. "In the year forty-five, I received a wound worse than death: I shall never recover from it!" He put his hand to his head, and looked so wildly, that our mother drew us instinctively towards her. He too promptly understood her apprehension. "Kind lady," said he, rising from his chair "I told your children I was unfit for any shelter but the wide heavens: yet my wound harms no one but myself." He turned, and with a hurried step moved towards the door. His eye was then dry, but our mother's overflowed: memory, as well as pity, was then busy in her heart. "You must not go, sir!" cried she. "If I have undesignedly given pain to the afflicted, my offence has been my punishment. Come back! the calamities of war have made me what you see me–a widow!"
The poor gentleman turned, and looked on my mother with a faint color rising to his cheek; he bowed his head too, with an air of reverence. His hand was pressed close to his heart, and his lip quivered, yet he smiled. My mother has often said, she never could forget the anguish of that smile. "I cannot go back," he replied: "I ought never to have come back anywhere. Sin should always be an outcast!"–"Nay, sir," answered my mother, "the followers of Prince Charles were unfortunate–might be mistaken; but their fidelity could not be a sin!"
While she was speaking, he became very pale; looking to the door and to the windows, as if he did not know from which to make his escape. Rather frightened. I hastened to open the door; he hurried towards it; then turned his eyes on my mother, with an expression of such long-seated woe that it went to her soul. He stopped at the door; and taking from out his waistcoat breast the rose I had seen him hide there, he put it into my hand. "There," said he, "it is a white one! Keep it near your innocent heart; and when you look at it, night and morning, pray for him that once owned it!" With a sigh that seemed heaved from the very depth of his soul, he passed through the open door-way. We heard his hasty steps over the paved floor of the passage, and then through the porch of the house-door. The latter usually stood open; the closed gates of the square being sufficient guard against intruders. My brother with his kind little heart sympathizing with the shows of some distress he could not well understand, hovered at a distance, and watched him out of the square.
"Who can he be?" my mother said, as she dried her eyes, and laid the rose he had given to me upon her table. Inquiry amongst our neighbors could lead her to form no guess; but, some time afterwards, she was told by an old woman who came to sell salt at the door–such being the regular venders of that article in Edinburgh, bringing it about in large baskets on their heads–that a person answering to the description our servant gave of the stranger had been occasionally seen by her, wandering along the fields towards the town of an evening; and that she was sorry to say, an accident had happened to him by which he was likely to die.
In short, on one of those evenings, while crossing the Canongate towards Holyrood House, his foot slipped on a stone, and he fell: at that instant a four-horse dray-cart, escaped from its owner, drove furiously over him. The fallen gentleman was taken up insensible, and conveyed by some of the humane people about to the city infirmary. One of the persons who assisted chanced to have been an old Jacobite sergeant; and he recognised the plaid scarf, then covering the death-like face of the stranger, to be the peculiar colors worn only by Prince Charles himself, when in Scotland. The common royal tartan of the Stuarts was of a distinctly different pattern. He whispered his observations to one of the hospital attendants, a friend of his own; and when the object of their joint particular interest was taken into a ward, and consigned to surgical care, it was discovered that not only a limb was fractured, but two ribs broken, and–that the sufferer was a woman!
When she was told her dangerous state, and urged to reveal her name, she wrote with pencil on a piece of paper, "I have forfeited my name; but send to the manse of * * * * :–those are there who will come to lay in a decent grave the last remains of an unhappy wanderer from their Christian care. This handwriting will explain to them whom they are called upon to bury–and forget."
The paper was sealed and despatched. The next day witnessed the arrival of a venerable minister and his aged sister. They acknowledged the sufferer to be their near relation; that for many years she had been visited with occasional fits of mental distraction; but she had never before strayed away from the deep seclusion in which, during all that time, she had hidden herself, until within the preceding fortnight; and then her alarmed friends were ceaselessly making every inquiry, when their search was so sadly terminated by the delivery of the note from the Edinburgh infirmary.
The old couple were conducted to the room of their dying relative, now, perhaps by the loss of blood, restored to her sanest state; and the meeting, we were told, drew tears from everybody present. After many sufferings, from the varied consequences of this terrible accident, she died,–with her pious kinsfolk praying over her. They closed her eyes; and the venerable old lady, after streeking the fair, emaciated corpse, wrapped it first in a linen winding-sheet, and then in Prince Charles's plaid. It was one he had worn himself; and ever since he had folded it, one stormy night at sea, round her he loved, it had been the cherished covering of her too faithful, though penitent and often distracted heart. Knowing this, the Christian hand which spread it there in death, felt, that He who said, "I will have mercy and not sacrifice!" and whose redeeming goodness had sealed the pardon of so true a Magdalen, would not count as sin this last act of sympathy with the melancholy tenderness of a fond woman's heart. The venerable minister, with many tears, silently acquiesced in what was done; and, on the night of the day in which their unhappy kinswoman was released from sorrow and suffering, they took her remains to their own home, and buried them in the manse burial-ground:–so slept Jeannie Cameron!
It may appear incredible to the generality of readers, that children of between six and eight years of age should have been so interested as I have represented, in events like these. It is most probable, that children brought up with nothing about them but the cares, tuitions, and indulgences of a nursery, would not even notice such things, did they chance to occur before them; for the minds of both young and old must be awakened to, and then habituated to certain feelings before they can be excited in the sudden way I have described, by objects of distress. The orphans of younger brothers who have married women of more virtues than fortune, seldom know anything of that restricting nursery care, which shuts up children from witnessing the casualties of life: they have to bestir their own selves from their cradles, and to share in every home scene that passes around them; and thus their minds and their hearts attain an early culture,–the selfish principle is crushed,–and a quick sympathizing sensibility is ever ready to start at the door. Something of this kind was the answer I returned, full twenty years ago, to Mr. Hastings (I mean the late Warren Hastings), when, on having read "The Scottish Chiefs" and "Thaddeus of Warsaw," he asked me how it was possible that a person, then so young as their author was, could have known so much of the human heart, and of human conduct, as those works described.
Though my earliest associations it may be seen, were all in favor of "The Scottish Chiefs" being the first of my writings, yet having quitted Scotland while still a child, eager to read books, and little dreaming of ever writing one, the "Fairy Queen," Sidney's "Arcadia," and other tales of English chivalry, soon took their share in dividing my admiration with the Scottish heroes, whom almost deifying tradition had taught me to worship. Sober history came in in good time to sift the wheat in this mingled growth of weeds and harvest; and my late preface to the standard edition of "Thaddeus of Warsaw" shows how the time-honored names of Sobieski and his followers wrought on me first, to dare becoming myself a narrator of heroic deeds.
That work was written in London; surrounded by living characters, whose corresponding military fame seemed to hold me examples I need only copy, to produce all I wanted to portray. But "The Scottish Chiefs" was composed under very different circumstances. Our revered parent had retired with us into the country. She wisely took us from a world that might have presented too many charms for young and ardent spirits, and which was then opening in many ways before us. In the quiet seclusion she chose, where we had then few acquaintance, recollections of the past could not but be our frequent amusement; and those of dear Scotland often presented themselves. We talked of our walks on the Calton Hill, then a vast green slope, with no other buildings breaking the line of its smooth and magnificent brow but Hume's monument on one part, and the astronomical observatory on another; then of our climbing the steeper heights of Arthur's seat, and of our awed visits to St. Anton's well–all haunted by the ever-inspiring images of William Wallace and his brother heroes; or, the not less interesting, though more modern remembrances, attached to the misfortunes of the house of Stuart, from unhappy Mary to her expatriated descendant, Charles Edward.
In these discourses, I often found myself again by the side of Luckie Forbes and her spinning-wheel, listening to the delightful hum of her legendary lore; and while I dwelt in recollection on all she had told me of the champion of Scotland, and on all I subsequently had read of him and his associates, whether in history, or in the old native poems of "Blinde Harrie" and "Barbour's Bruce," some of the earliest friends of my youth successively died–persons descended from the bravest and the best of those honored associates; and, under the impulse of a votive sorrow, I conceived the idea of writing "The Scottish Chiefs."
It was composed and published within the year in which I first touched it; so entirely was my mind, and heart, and time, devoted to my subject. And how it fared with a kind public, the postscript annexed to a former Preface of the work (both being reprinted here), will now gratefully repeat, in the year 1831.
To paint the portrait of one of the most complete heroes that ever filled the page of history, may be a bold, though I hope not a vain design. The contemplation of virtue is an improving, as well as a delightful employment; and however inadequate this picture may be to represent its original–William Wallace of Scotland–yet, that it is a copy of such excellence, will be merit in the eyes of those who so love virtue as to venerate its shade.
I have spared no pains in consulting almost every writing extant which treats of the sister kingdom during the period of my narrative. It would be tedious to swell this page with a list of these authorities; but all who are intimate with our old British historians must perceive, on reading the Scottish Chiefs, that in the sketch which history would have laid down for the biography of my principal hero, I have made no addition, excepting where, time having made some erasure, a stroke was necessary to fill the space and unite the outline. Tradition has been a great assistance to me in this respect, and for much valuable information on the subject, I am indebted to the bard of Hope, my friend Mr. Thomas Campbell; he who has so nobly mingled the poet's bays with the laurels of his clan.
While tracing the characters of my personages in the Scottish annals, it was with infinite pleasure I recognised those virtues in the fathers which had attached me to their posterity. Delighted with this most dear proof of kindred, I have fondly lingered over my work; re-enjoying, in its visionary scenes, hours fled to heaven. I have again discoursed, and mingled my soul, with friends whose nobility of spirit honored the illustrious stems from which they sprang; but, like the blossomed bough torn from its branch, they are gone, and spread fragrance in my path no more.
It is now too common to contemn as nonsense even an honest pride in ancestry. But where is the Englishman who is not proud of being the countryman of Nelson? Where the British sailor that does not thirst to emulate his fame? Where the worthy citizen who does not respect himself in the honorable memories of William Walworth and Sir Thomas Gresham?
If this sentiment be right, respect for noble progenitors cannot be wrong, for it proceeds from the same source,–the principle of kindred, of inheritance, and of virtue. Let the race of Douglas, or the brave line of the Percy, bear witness whether the name they hold be not as a mirror to show them what they ought to be, and to kindle in their hearts the flame which burnt in their fathers. Happy is it for this realm that the destiny which now unites the once contending arms of those brave families has also consolidated their rival nations into one, and by planting the heir of Plantagenet and of Bruce upon one throne, hath redeemed the peace of Britain, and fixed it on lasting foundations.
From the nature of my story, more agents have been used in its conduct than I should have adopted had it been a work of mere imagination. But very few persons wholly imaginary have been introduced; and wishing to keep as near historical truth as could be consistent with my plan, no intentional injustice has been committed against the characters of the individuals who were real actors with the chief hero of the tale. The melancholy circumstance which first excited him to draw his sword for Scotland, though it may be thought too much like the creation of modern romance, is recorded as a fact in the old poem of Blind Harrie. Other private events have been interwoven with the public subjects of these volumes, that the monotony of a continued series of warlike achievements might in some measure be lessened. Some notes are added, to confirm the historical incidents; but finding that were they all marked, such a plan would swell each volume beyond its proper size; in one word, I assure the reader, that I seldom lead him to any spot in Scotland whither some written or oral testimony respecting my hero had not previously conducted myself. In the same spirit, being careful to keep to the line of my chronology, I have not strayed from it in any instance, until my chief personages return from France; and then, my history being intended to be within the bounds of modern romance rather than measured by the folios of Scudery, I found myself obliged to take some liberties with time and circumstance; for both of which offences, and particularly for the management of my catastrophe, I hope the historical, if he be also a gentle reader, will find no difficulty in forgiving me.
J. P.
LONG DITTON,
Dec. 1809.
IN dismissing this edition of the Scottish Chiefs from the press after so many of its predecessors, its author will not deny herself the genuine pleasure of expressing her grateful sense of the candor with which so adventurous a work from a female pen has been generally received. That among these liberal approvers are the people of her hero's nation–the country in which she first drew the aliments of her intellectual life–cannot but afford a peculiar gratification to her heart; and she expresses her delight on this occasion with the feeling of a child rejoicing in the approbation of indulgent parents; for England, the land of her birth, has not been less kind in its reception
While thus fondly recording the favorable sentiments of her own country; she has the satisfaction of adding similar suffrages from foreign lands; while, indeed, the immediate result from such an approval in one of those lands was quite unexpected by her–giving her the honor of sharing the distinction of a literary banishment along with the great name of Madame de Stael. The Scottish Chiefs was translated into the languages of the continent. She received from Vienna, Berlin, Wirtemberg, Petersburgh, and Moscow, and even far distant India, letters of generous criticism from persons of the highest name in rank and literature. But when the work was ready for publication in France, it was denounced by the order of Napoleon, as dangerous to the state, and commanded to be withheld or destroyed.
The widow of the brave and unfortunate General Moreau was the first that mentioned this prohibition to the writer. There are many interesting events connected in the author's mind with that communication. It was made to her in the morning of a most remarkable day; for a very few hours after Madame Moreau had been talking with her, and the young and lovely widow's full heart had drawn a sad parallel between her own lost hero and those commemorated by her friend, the author saw her on the platform of the balcony of the Pulteney Hotel, to witness, along with the imperial family of Russia then resident there, the public entry into London of Louis XVIII. on his restoration as king of France. The writer of this recollection, though she had not the honor of being on the same balcony, was so situated as to be able to observe all that passed there. The Grand Duchess Catherine of Russia, and the Princess Charlotte of England, stood together, after having embraced each other on their meeting, amidst the welcoming shouts of the throng of people in the street. Both were simply but elegantly dressed; both were in the bloom of youth, and full of joyous gaiety. Near them stood another Russian princess, also in the summer of her life, and equally animated. On the opposite side of the balcony sat our true British princess, Elizabeth, looking all kind-hearted gladsomeness for the happy pageant about to pass. The duke of Oldenberg, a pretty child, the son of the young grand duchess, was on her royal highness's knee. Madame Moreau, in her deep widow's weeds, stood not far from her, leaning against the balustrade. When the procession came forward and the open carriage which contained Louis stopped an instant under the balcony to receive the gratulations of the imperial and royal party above, all waved their handkerchiefs; the grand duchess and the Princess Charlotte kissing their hands to the gratefully-bowing head of the Duchess d'Angoulême, whose pale cheek and emaciated form bore too evident marks of her trying destiny up to that hour. She smiled–all smiled excepting the recently desolated widow of Moreau; and she indeed leaned over the railing towards the carriage, and waved her white handkerchief too; but the writer of this saw the heavy tears rolling down her cheeks in actual showers, and fall upon the top of the balustrade in large drops, leaving it wet with them.
But a sadder memorial hangs over that scene. In the course of a very few years afterwards, not one of those young and blooming persons, royal and noble, who stood there, the hope and admiration of many loyal and attached hearts, was existing on this earth! The Grand Duchess Catherine died at Wirtemberg, then its queen; the other Russian princess followed the same early call at St. Petersburgh. Madame Moreau closed her widowed sorrows at Paris; and our own Princess Charlotte–all England knows how it lost her. Even the boy duke of Oldenberg is no more! And the sole remaining one, who looked in that extraordinary moment from that balcony, filled with youth and beauty, and tenderly-beating hearts, is our Princess Elizabeth, the most senior of them all, who, after becoming the landgravine of Hesse Homberg, has herself returned a widow to her country, which is indeed happy to receive back the honored mourner. But the awful events ended not there: the royal object of that great day's pageant is himself gone to another world; and the Duchess d'Angoulême, again driven from the throne of her ancestors, has once more become a hopeless exile! Thus then it is proved, that death and sorrow know no respect of persons.
Madame Moreau's information had gone further to me than communicating the interdiction of this work by the Emperor Napoleon. She told me of its immediate publication in Paris on the recall of the Bourbons; and soon after receiving a copy from France, I found the translator's account of the prohibition in his preface.
It seems hardly credible that the same victor, who when he came forward (with pretensions at least) to redeem Poland to independence, quoted the words of her hero Sobieski, by way of a noble excitement, should, not many years afterwards, put an interdict on the very same sentiments, when expressed by the Scottish Chiefs, in his own empire of France. But the difference in his language may be read in his relative circumstances. He wished, as a pretended umpire and benefactor, to impose his lasting sceptre on the one people, and to hold in unreflecting subjection the other. We know that with conquerors, who usually fight for power rather than justice, the use of certain sentiments springs more from expediency than principle. Real principle is proved in the result; a true patriot establishes the liberty of his country without infringing on the rights of others, a pretender first founds a despotic empire over his own countrymen, and then leads them to put similar chains on their neighbors.
To draw the line between such characters, to place high chivalric loyalty and the spirit of patriotic freedom on just principles, whether in the breast of prince or peasant, the writer of this tale has studied the page of many a history,–has studied the lesson in many a noble heart. With humility as to the execution of her task, but with due confidence in its matter and object, she proceeded from Thaddeus of Warsaw to The Scottish Chiefs. And so would do henceforward on whatever ground she might take her stand to labor in the cause.
Sir Philip Sidney, a true hero of her own country, early gave her this text, "Let who may make the laws of a people, allow me to write their ballads and I'll guide them at my will!" What ballads were to the sixteenth century, romances are to ours,–the constant companions of young people's leisure hours; biassing them to virtue or misleading them to vice. And to inspire the most susceptible period of man's existence, his youth, with the principles which are to be his future staff, and their effects his "exceeding great reward;" is the motive of my pen. Hence, in proportion to the great view of the aim must be the satisfaction derived, when the approbation of the wise and of the good has pronounced the attempt not unworthy its intention.
* This was the Prince de Soubise; a gallant officer, but so great a coxcomb that his soldiers called him Madame. Swords, pistols, powder-horns, cosmetics, perfumes, all were found mingled together in his tent when entered by the British soldiers.
RIGHT was the summer of 1296. The war which had desolated Scotland was then at an end. Ambition seemed satiated; and the vanquished, after having passed under the yoke of their enemy, concluded they might wear their chains in peace. Such were the hopes of those Scottish noblemen who, early in the preceding spring, had signed the bond of submission to a ruthless conqueror, purchasing life at the price of all that makes life estimable,–liberty and honor.
Prior to this act of vassalage, Edward I. king of England, had entered Scotland at the head of an immense army. He seized Berwick by stratagem; laid the country in ashes; and, on the field of Dunbar, forced the Scottish king and his nobles to acknowledge him their liege lord.
But while the courts of Edward, or of his representatives, were crowded by the humbled Scots, the spirit of one brave man remained unsubdued. Disgusted alike at the facility with which the sovereign of a warlike nation could resign his people and his crown into the hands of a treacherous invader, and at the pusillanimity of the nobles who had ratified the sacrifice, William Wallace retired to the glen of Ellerslie. Withdrawn from the world, he hoped to avoid the sight of oppressions he could not redress, and the endurance of injuries beyond his power to avenge.
Thus checked at the opening of life in the career of glory that was his passion,–secluded in the bloom of manhood from the social haunts of men,–he repressed the eager aspirations of his mind, and strove to acquire that resignation to inevitable evils which alone could reconcile him to forego the promises of his youth, and enable him to view with patience a humiliation of Scotland, which blighted her honor, menaced her existence, and consigned her sons to degradation or obscurity. The latter was the choice of Wallace. Too noble to bend his spirit to the usurper, too honest to affect submission, he resigned himself to the only way left of maintaining the independence of a true Scot; and giving up the world at once, all the ambitions of youth became extinguished in his breast, since nothing was preserved in his country to sanctify their fires. Scotland seemed proud of her chains. Not to share in such debasement, appeared all that was now in his power; and within the shades of Ellerslie he found a retreat and a home, whose sweets beguiling him of every care, made him sometimes forget the wrongs of his country in the tranquil enjoyments of wedded love.
During the happy months of the preceding autumn, while Scotland was yet free, and the path of honorable distinction still open before her young nobility, Wallace married Marion Braidfoot, the beautiful heiress of Lammington. Nearly of the same age and brought up from childhood together, reciprocal affection had grown with their growth; and sympathy of taste and virtues, and mutual tenderness, made them so entirely one, that when at the age of twenty-two the enraptured lover was allowed to pledge that faith publicly at the altar, which he had so often vowed in secret to his Marion, he clasped her to his heart, and softly whispered, "Dearer than life! part of my being! blessed is this union, that mingles thy soul with mine, now, and for ever!"
Edward's invasion of Scotland broke in upon their innocent joys. Wallace threw aside the wedding garment for the cuirass and the sword. But he was not permitted long to use either:–Scotland submitted to her enemies; and he had no alternative but to bow to her oppressors, or to become an exile from man, amid the deep glens of his country.
The tower of Ellerslie was henceforth the lonely abode of himself and his bride. The neighboring nobles avoided him, because the principles he declared were a tacit reproach on their proceedings; and in the course of a short time, as he forbore to seek them, they even forgot that he was in existence. Indeed, all occasions of mixing with society he now rejected. The hunting-spear with which he had delighted to follow the flying roebuck from glade to glade, the arrows with which he used to bring down the heavy ptarmigan or the towering eagle, all were laid aside. Scottish liberty was no more; and Wallace would have blushed to have shown himself to the free-born deer of his native hills, in communion of sports with the spoilers of his country. Had he pursued his one favorite exercise, he must have mingled with the English, now garrisoned in every town, and who passed their hours of leisure in the chase.
Being resigned to bury his youth–since its strength could no longer be serviceable to his country,–books, his harp, and the sweet converse of his tender Marion, became the occupations of his days. Ellerslie was his hermitage; and there, closed from the world, with an angel his companion, he might have forgotten Edward was lord in Scotland, had not that which was without his little paradise made a way to its gates, and showed him the slavery of the nobles and the wretchedness of the people. In these cases, his generous hand gave succor where it could not bring redress. Those whom the lawless plunderer had driven from their houses or stripped of their covering, found shelter, clothing, and food at the house of Sir William Wallace.
Ellerslie was the refuge of the friendless, and the comfort of the unhappy. Wherever Lady Wallace moved,–whether looking out from her window on the accidental passenger, or taking her morning or moonlight walks through the glen, leaning on the arm of her husband,–she had the rapture of hearing his steps greeted and followed by the blessing of the poor destitute, and the prayers of them who were ready to perish. It was then that this happy woman would raise her husband's hand to her lips, and, in silent adoration, thank God for blessing her with a being made so truly in his own image.
Several months of this blissful and uninterrupted solitude had elapsed, when Lady Wallace saw a chieftain at her gate. He inquired for its master–requested a private conference–and retired with him into a remote room. They remained together for an hour. Wallace then came forth, and ordering his horse, with four followers, to be in readiness, said he meant to accompany his guest to Douglas castle. When he embraced his wife at parting, he told her that as Douglas was only a few miles distant, he should be at home again before the moon rose.
She passed the tedious hours of his absence with tranquillity, till the appointed signal of his return appeared from behind the summits of the opposite mountains. So bright were its beams, that Marion did not need any other light to show her the stealing sands of her hour-glass, as they numbered the prolonged hours of her husband's stay. She dismissed her servants to their rest; all excepting Halbert, the gray-haired harper of Wallace; and he, like herself; was too unaccustomed to the absence of his master to find sleep visit his eyes while Ellerslie was bereft of its joy and its guard.
As the night advanced, Lady Wallace sat in the window of her bed-chamber, which looked towards the west. She watched the winding pathway that led from Lanark down the opposite heights, eager to catch a glimpse of the waving plumes of her husband when he should emerge from behind the hill, and pass under the thicket which overhung the road. How often, as a cloud obscured for an instant the moon's light, and threw a transitory shade across the path, did her heart bound with the thought that her watching was at an end! It was he whom she had seen start from the abrupt rock! They were the folds of his tartan that darkened the white cliff! But the moon again rolled through her train of clouds, and threw her light around. Where then was her Wallace? Alas! it was only a shadow she had seen! the hill was still lonely, and he whom she sought was yet far away! Overcome with watching, expectation, and disappointment, unable to say whence arose her fears, she sat down again to look; but her eyes were blinded with tears and in a voice interrupted by sighs she exclaimed, "Not yet, not yet!–Ah my Wallace, what evil hath betided thee?"
Trembling with a nameless terror, she knew not what to dread She believed that all hostile rencontres had ceased, when Scotland no longer contended with Edward. The nobles, without remonstrance, had surrendered their castles into the hands of the usurper; and the peasantry, following the example of their lords, had allowed their homes to be ravaged without lifting an arm in their defence. Opposition being over, nothing could then threaten her husband from the enemy; and was not the person who had taken him from Ellerslie a friend?
Before Wallace's departure he had spoken to Marion alone; he told her that the stranger was Sir John Monteith, the youngest son of the brave Walter Lord Monteith,* who had been treacherously put to death by the English in the early part of the foregoing year. This young man was bequeathed by his dying father to the particular charge of his friend William Lord Douglas, at that time governor of Berwick. After the fall of that place and the captivity of its defender, Sir John Monteith had retired to Douglas Castle, in the vicinity of Lanark, and was now the sole master of that princely residence; James Douglas, the only son of its veteran lord, being still at Paris, whither he had been despatched, before the defeat at Dunbar, to negotiate a league between the French monarch and the then king of Scots.
Informed of the privacy in which Wallace wished to live, Monteith had never ventured to disturb it until this day; but knowing the steady honor of his old school companion, he came to entreat him, by the respect he entertained for the brave Douglas, and by his love for his country, that he would not refuse to accompany him to the brave exile's castle.
"I have a secret to disclose to you," said he, "which cannot be divulged on any other spot."
Unwilling to deny so small a favor, Wallace, as has been said before, consented; and accordingly was conducted by Monteith towards Douglas.
While descending the heights which led to the castle, Monteith kept a profound silence; and when crossing the drawbridge towards it, he put his finger to his lips, in token to the servants for equal caution. This was explained as they entered the gate and looked around. It was guarded by English soldiers. Wallace would have drawn back; but Monteith laid his hand on his arm and whispered, "For your country!" At these words, a spell to the ear of Wallace, he proceeded; and his attendants followed into the courtyard.
The sun was just setting as Monteith led his friend into the absent earl's room. Its glowing reflection on the distant hills reminded Wallace of the stretch he had to retread to reach his home before midnight; and thinking of his anxious Marion, he waited with impatience the development of the object of his journey.
Monteith closed the door, looked fearfully around for some time; then, trembling at every step, approached Wallace. When drawn quite near, in a low voice he said, "You must swear upon the cross that you will keep inviolate the secret I am going to reveal."
Wallace put aside the hilt of the sword which Monteith presented to receive his oath:–"No," said he, with a smile, "in these times I will not bind my conscience on subjects I do not know. If you dare trust the word of a Scotsman and a friend, speak out; and if the matter be honest, my honor is your pledge."
"You will not swear?"
"No."
"Then I must not trust you."
"Then our business is at an end," returned Wallace, rising "and I may return home."
"Stop!" cried Monteith. "Forgive me, my old companion that I have dared to hesitate. These are, indeed, times of such treason to honor, that I do not wonder you should be careful how you swear; but the nature of the confidence reposed in me will, I hope, convince you that I ought not to share it rashly. Of any one but you, whose truth stands unsullied amidst the faithlessness of the best, I would exact oaths on oaths; but your word is given, and on that I rely. Await me here."
Monteith unlocked a door which had been concealed by the tapestry, and after a short absence re-entered with a small iron box. He set it on the table near his friend, then went to the great door, which he had before so carefully closed, tried that the bolts were secure, and returned, with a still more pallid countenance, towards the table. Wallace, surprised at so much precaution, and at the extreme apprehension visible in these actions, awaited, with wonder, the promised explanation. Monteith sat down, with his hand on the box, and, fixing his eyes on it, began:–
"I am going to mention a name, which you may hear with patience, since its power is no more. The successful rival of Bruce, and the enemy of your family, is now a prisoner in the Tower of London."
"Baliol?"
"Yes," answered Monteith; "and his present sufferings will, perhaps, avenge to you his vindictive resentment of the injury he received from Sir Ronald Crawford."
"My grandfather never injured him, nor any man!" interrupted Wallace: "Sir Ronald Crawford was as incapable of injustice as of flattering the minions of his country's enemy. But Baliol is fallen, and I forgive him."
"Did you witness his degradation," returned Monteith, "you would even pity him."
"I always pity the wicked," continued Wallace; "and as you seem ignorant of the cause of his enmity against Sir Ronald and myself, in justice to the character of that most venerable of men, I will explain it. I first saw Baliol four years ago, when I accompanied my grandfather to witness the arbitration of the king of England between the two contending claimants for the Scottish crown. Sir Ronald came on the part of Bruce. I was deemed too young to have a voice in the council; but I was old enough to understand what was passing there, and to perceive, in the crouching demeanor with which Baliol received the crown, that it was the price for which he sold his country. However, as Scotland acknowledged him sovereign, and as Bruce submitted, my grandfather silently acquiesced. But Baliol did not forget former opposition. His behavior to Sir Ronald and myself at the beginning of this year, when, according to the privilege of our birth, we appeared in the field against the public enemy, fully demonstrated what was the injury Baliol complains of, and how unjustly he drove us from the standard of Scotland. 'None,' said he, 'shall serve under me, who presumed to declare themselves the friends of Bruce.' Poor weak man! The purchased vassal of England; yet so vain of his ideal throne, he hated all who had opposed his elevation, even while his own treachery sapped its foundation! Edward having made use of him, all these sacrifices of honor and of conscience are insufficient to retain his favor; and Baliol is removed from his kingdom to an English prison! Can I feel anything so honoring as indignation against a wretch so abject? No! I do indeed pity him. And now that I have cleared my grandfather's name of such calumny, I am ready to hear you further."
Monteith, after remarking on the well-known honor of Sir Ronald Crawford, resumed.
"During the massacre at the capture of Berwick, Lord Douglas, wounded, and nearly insensible, was taken by a trusty band of Scots out of the citadel and town. I followed him to Dunbar and witnessed with him that day's dreadful conflict, which completed the triumphs of the English. When the few nobles who survived the battle dispersed, Douglas took the road to Forfar, hoping to meet King Baliol there, and to concert with him new plans of resistance. When we arrived, we found his majesty in close conversation with the earl of Athol, who had persuaded him the disaster at Dunbar was decisive, and that if he wished to save his life, he must immediately go to the king of England, then at Montrose, and surrender himself to his mercy. *
"Douglas tried to alter Baliol's resolution but without effect. The king could not return any reasonable answers to the arguments which were offered to induce him to remain, but continued to repeat, with groans and tears, ' It is my fate.' Athol sat knitting his black brows during this conversation; and at last throwing out some sullen remarks to Lord Douglas on exhorting the king to defy his liege lord, he abruptly left the room.
"As soon as he was gone, Baliol rose from his seat with a very anxious countenance, and taking my patron into an adjoining room, they continued there a few minutes, and then re-entered. Douglas brought with him this iron box. 'Monteith,' said he, 'I confide this to your care.' Putting the box under my arm, and concealing it with my cloak–'Carry it,' continued he, 'directly to my castle in Lanarkshire. I will rejoin you there, in four-and-twenty hours after your arrival. Meanwhile, by your affection for me and fidelity to your king, breathe not a word of what has passed.'
"'Look on that, and be faithful!' said Baliol, putting this ruby ring on my finger. I withdrew, with the haste his look dictated; and as I crossed the outward hall, was met by Athol. He eyed me sternly, and inquired whither I was going. I replied, 'To Douglas, to prepare for the coming of its lord.' The hall was full of armed men in Athol's colors. Not one of the remnant who had followed my patron from the bloody field of Dunbar was visible. Athol looked round on his myrmidons: ' Here,' cried he, 'see that you speed this fellow on his journey. We shall provide lodgings for his master.' I foresaw danger to Lord Douglas, but I durst not attempt to warn him of it; and to secure my charge, which a return to the room might have hazarded, I hastened into the courtyard, and, being permitted to mount my horse, set off at full speed.
"On arriving at this place, I remembered that secret closet, and carefully deposited the box within it. A week passed, without any tidings of Lord Douglas. At last a pilgrim appeared at the gate, and requested to see me alone; fearing nothing from a man in so sacred a habit, I admitted him. Presenting me with a packet which had been intrusted to him by Lord Douglas, he told me my patron had been forcibly carried on board a vessel at Montrose, to be conveyed with the unhappy Baliol to the Tower of London. Douglas, on this outrage, sent to the monastery at Aberbrothick and under the presence of making a religious confession before he sailed, begged a visit from the sub-prior. 'I am that prior,' continued the pilgrim; 'and having been born on the Douglas lands he well knew the claim he had to my fidelity. He gave me this packet, and conjured me to lose no time in conveying it to you. The task was difficult; and, as in these calamitous seasons we hardly know whom to trust, I determined to execute it myself.'
"I inquired whether Lord Douglas had actually sailed. 'Yes,' replied the father; 'I stood on the beach till the ship disappeared.'"
A half-stifled groan burst from the indignant breast of Wallace. It interrupted Monteith for an instant, but without noticing it he proceeded:–
"Not only the brave Douglas was then wrested from his country, with our king, but also that holy pillar of Jacob, * which prophets have declared to be the palladium of Scotland!"
"What!" inquired Wallace with a yet darker frown, "has Baliol robbed Scotland of that trophy of one of her best kings? Is the sacred gift of Fergus to be made the spoil of a coward?"
"Baliol is not the robber," rejoined Monteith; "the hallowed pillar was taken from Scone by the command of the king of England, and, with the sackings of Iona, was carried on board the same vessel with the betrayed Douglas. The archives of the kingdom have also been torn from their sanctuary, and were thrown by Edward's own hands into the fire."
"Tyrant!" murmured Wallace, "thou mayest fill the cup too full."
"His depredations," continued Monteith, "the good monk told me, have been wide as destructive. He has not left a parchment, either of public records or of private annals, in any of the monasteries or castles around Montrose; all have been searched and plundered. And besides, the faithless earl of March and Lord Soulis are such parricides of their country, as to have performed the like robberies, in his name, from the eastern shores of the Highlands to the farthest of the Western Isles."
"Do the traitors think," cried Wallace, "that by robbing Scotland of her annals and of that stone they really deprive her of her palladium? Scotland's history is in the memories of her sons; her palladium is in their hearts; and Edward may one day find that she remembers the victory of Largs, * and needs not talismans to give her freedom."
"Alas! not in our time!" answered Monteith. "The spear is at our breasts, and we must submit. You see this castle is full of Edward's soldiers. Every house is a garrison for England,–but more of this by-and-bye; I have yet to tell you the contents of the packet which the monk brought. It contained two others. One directed to Sir James Douglas, at Paris, and the other to me. I read as follows:–
"'Athol has persuaded Baliol to his ruin, and betrayed me into the hands of Edward. I shall see Scotland no more. Send the enclosed to my son at Paris; it will inform him what is the last wish of William Douglas for his country. The iron box I confided to you, guard as your life, until you can deposit it with my son. But should he remain abroad, and you ever be in extremity, commit the box in strict charge to the worthiest Scot you know; and tell him that it will be at the peril of his soul, who dares to open it, till Scotland be again free! When that hour comes, then let the man by whose valor God restores her rights, receive the box as his own; for by him only is it to be opened.
DOUGLAS.'"
Monteith finished reading the letter, and remained silent. Wallace, who had listened to it with increasing indignation against the enemies of Scotland, spoke first:–"Tell me in what I can assist you; or how serve these last wishes of the imprisoned Douglas."
Monteith replied by reading over again this sentence.–"'Should my son remain abroad, and you ever be in extremity, commit the box in strict charge to the worthiest Scot you know.'–I am in that extremity now. Edward determined on desolation, when he placed English governors throughout our towns; and the rapacious Heselrigge, his representative in Lanark, not backward to execute the despot's will, has just issued an order, for the houses of all the absent chiefs to be searched for records and secret correspondences. Two or three in the neighborhood have already gone through this ordeal; but the event has proved that it was not papers they sought, but plunder, and an excuse for dismantling the castles, or occupying them with English officers.
"The soldiers you saw were sent, by daybreak this morning, to guard this castle until Heselrigge could in person be present at the examination. This ceremony is to take place to-morrow, and as Lord Douglas is considered a traitor to Edward, I am told the place will be sacked to its walls. In such an extremity, to you, noble Wallace, as the worthiest Scot I know, I apply to take charge of this box. Within the remote cliffs of Ellerslie it must be safe; and when James Douglas arrives from Paris, to him you will resign it. Meanwhile, as I cannot resist the plunderers, after delivering the keys of the state apartments to Heselrigge to-morrow, I shall submit to necessity, and beg his permission to retire to my lodge on Ben Venu."
Wallace made no difficulty in granting Monteith's request; and, there being two iron rings on each side of his charge, the young chief took off his leathern belt, and putting it through them, swung the box easily under his left arm, while covering it with his plaid.
Monteith's eyes now brightened,–the paleness left his cheek,–and with a firmer step, as if suddenly relieved of a heavy load, he called a servant to prepare Sir William Wallace's attendants.
While Wallace shook him by the hand, Monteith, in a low and solemn voice, exhorted him to caution respecting the box. "Remember," added he, "the penalty that hangs over him who looks into it."
"Be not afraid," answered Wallace; "even the outside shall never be seen by other eyes than my own, unless the same circumstance which now induces you, mortal extremity, should force me to confide it to safer hands."
"Beware of that!" exclaimed Monteith; "for who is there that would adhere to the prohibition as I have done–as you will do? and besides, as I have no doubt it contains holy relics, who knows what new calamities a sacrilegious look might bring upon our already devoted country?"
"Relics or no relics," replied Wallace, "it would be an equal sin against good faith to invade what is forbidden: but from the weight I am rather inclined to suspect it contains gold; probably a treasure, with which the sordid Baliol thinks to compensate the hero who may free his country, for all the miseries a traitor king and a treacherous usurper have brought upon it."
"A treasure!" repeated Monteith; "I never thought of that–it is indeed heavy!–and, as we are responsible for the contents of the box, I wish we were certain of what it contains; let us consider that!"
"It is no consideration of ours," returned Wallace. "With what is in the box we have no concern: all we have to do is, to preserve the contents unviolated by even our own eyes; and to that, as you have now transferred the charge to me, I pledge myself:–farewell."
"But why this haste?" rejoined Monteith; "indeed, I wish I had thought–stay only a little."
"I thank you," returned Wallace, proceeding to the courtyard, "but it is now dark, and I promised to be at home before the moon rises. If you wish me to serve you further, I shall be happy to see you at Ellerslie to-morrow. My Marion will have pleasure in entertaining, for days or weeks, the friend of her husband."
While Wallace spoke, he advanced to his horse, to which he was lighted by the servants of the castle. A few English soldiers lingered about in idle curiosity. As he put his foot in the stirrup, he held the sword in his hand, which he had unbuckled from his side to leave space for his charge. Monteith, whose dread of detection was ever awake, whispered, "Your loosened weapon may excite suspicion!" Fear incurred what it sought to avoid. He hastily pulled aside Wallace's plaid to throw it over the glittering hilt of the sword, and thus exposed the iron box. The light of the torches striking upon the polished rivets, displayed it to all lookers on, but no remark was made. Wallace, not observing what was done, again shook hands with Monteith, and calling his servants about him, galloped away. A murmur was heard, as if of some intention to follow him; but deeming it prudent to leave the open and direct road, because of the English marauders who swarmed there, he was presently lost amid the thick shades of Clydesdale.
* Walter Stewart, the father of Sir John Monteith, assumed the name and earldom of Monteith in right of his wife, the daughter and heiress of the preceding earl. When his wife died, he married an Englishwoman of rank, who, finding him ardently attached to the liberties of his country, cut him off by poison, and was rewarded by the enemies of Scotland for this murder with the hand of a British nobleman.–(1809.)
* This treacherous Scot, who persuaded Baliol to his ruin, was John Cummin of Strathbogie, earl of Athol in right of his wife, the heiress of that earldom.–(1809.)
* The tradition respecting this stone is as follows:–Hiber, or Iber, the Phoenician, who came from the Holy Land to inhabit the coast of Spain, brought this sacred relic along with him. From Spain he transplanted it with the colony he sent to people the south of Ireland; and from Ireland it was brought into Scotland by the great Fergus, the son of Ferchard. He placed it in Argyleshire; but MacAlpine removed it to Scone, and fixed it in the royal chair in which all the succeeding kings of Scotland were inaugurated. Edward I. of England caused it to be carried to Westminster Abbey, where it now stands. The tradition is, that empire abides where it stays.–(1809.)
* This battle was fought by Alexander III. on the 1st of August, 1263, against Acho, king of Norway. That monarch invaded Scotland, with a large army, and drew up his forces before Largs, a town in Ayrshire. He met with a great defeat, and, covered with disgrace, retired to his own country. Wallace's father signalized himself on that field.–(1809.)
HE darkness was almost impenetrable. Musing on what had passed with Monteith, and on the little likelihood of any hero appearing, who, by freeing his country, could ever claim the privilege of investigating the mystery which was now his care, Wallace rode on till, crossing the bridge of Lanark, he saw the rising moon silver the tops of the distant hills; and then his meditations embraced a gentler subject. This was the time he had promised Marion he should be returned, and he had yet five long miles to go, before he could reach the glen of Ellerslie; he thought of her being alone–of watching, with an anxious heart, the minutes of his delay. Scotland and its wrongs he now forgot, in the idea of her whose happiness was dearer to him than life. He could not achieve the deliverance of the one, but it was his bliss to preserve the peace of the other; and putting spurs to his horse, under the now bright beams of the moon he hastened through the town.
Abruptly turning an angle leading to the Mouse river, a cry of murder arrested his ear. He checked his horse and listened. The clashing of arms told him the sound had issued from an alley to the left. He alighted in an instant, and drawing his sword, threw away the scabbard (prophetic omen!); then, leaving his horse with one of his servants, hastened, with the other three, to the spot whence the noise proceeded.
On arriving, he discovered two men in tartans, with their back to the opposite wall, furiously assaulted by a throng of Edward's soldiers. At this sight, the Scots who accompanied Wallace were so enraged that, blowing their bugles to encourage the assailed, they joined hand to hand with their gallant leader, and attacking the banditti, each man cut his opponent to the ground.
Such unexpected assistance reanimated the drooping strength of one of the two, from whom the cry had issued. He sprang from the wall with the vigor of a tiger, but at that moment received a wound in his back, which would have thrown him at the feet of his enemies, had not Wallace caught him in his left arm, and with his right cleared the way, while he cried to his men who were fighting near him–"To the Glen!" As he spoke, he threw the now insensible stranger into their arms. The other man, whose voice had first attracted Wallace, at that instant sunk, covered with blood, on the pavement.
Two of the servants, obeying their master, carried their senseless burden towards the horses; but the third, being hemmed in by the furious soldiers, could not move. Wallace made a passage to his rescue, and effected it; but one base wretch, while the now wounded Scot was retreating, made a stroke which would have severed his head from his body, had not the trusty claymore of Wallace struck down the pending weapon of the coward, and received his rushing body upon its point. He fell with bitter imprecations, calling aloud for vengeance.
A dreadful cry was now raised by the whole band of assassins:– "Murder!–treason!–Arthur Heselrigge is slain!" The uproar became general. The windows of the adjoining houses were thrown open; people armed and unarmed issued from their doors, and pressed forward to inquire the cause of the alarm. Wallace was nearly overpowered; a hundred swords flashed in the torchlight; but at the moment he expected they would be sheathed in his heart, the earth gave way under his feet, and he sunk into utter darkness.
He fell upon a quantity of gathered broom; and concluding that the weight of the thronging multitude had burst his way through the arch of a cellar, he sprung on his feet: and though he heard the curses of several wretches, who had fallen with him and fared worse, he made but one step to a half-opened door, pointed out to him by a gleam from an inner passage. The men uttered a shout as they saw him darken the light which glimmered through it; but they were incapable of pursuit; and Wallace, aware of his danger, darting across the adjoining apartment, burst open a window, and leaped out at the foot of the Lanark hills.
The oaths of the soldiers, enraged at his escape, echoed in his ears, till distance sunk them into hoarse murmurs. He pursued his way over the crags; through the valley, and across the river, to the cliffs which embattle the garden of Ellerslie. Springing on the projecting point of the nearest, he leaped into a thicket of honeysuckles. This was the favorite bower of his Marion! The soft perfume, as it saluted his senses, seemed to breathe peace and safety; and as he emerged from its fragrant embrace, he walked with a calmer step towards the house. He approached a door which led into the garden. It was open. He beheld his beloved leaning over a couch, on which was laid the person he had rescued. Halbert was dressing his wounds.
Wallace paused for a moment, to contemplate his lovely wife in this more lovely act of charity. Her beautiful hands held a cup to the lips of the stranger; while her long hair, escaped from its bands, fell in jetty ringlets, and mingled with his silver locks.
"Marion!" exclaimed the overflowing soul of her husband. She looked up at the well-known sound, and with a cry of joy, rushing forward, threw herself into his arms: her tears flowed, she sobbed–she clung to his breast. It was the first time Wallace had been from her; she had feared it would have been the last. The hour–the conflict–the bleeding stranger! But now he was returned–he was safe!
"Art thou indeed here!" exclaimed she. Blood fell from his forehead upon her face and bosom: "O, my Wallace!" cried she, in agony.
"Fear not, my love! all is well, since our wounded countryman is safe."
"But you bleed!" returned she. No tears now impeded her voice. Terror had checked their joyful currents; and she felt as if she expected his life-blood to issue from the wound on which she gazed.
"I hope my preserver is not hurt?" inquired the stranger.
"Oh, no!" replied Wallace, putting back the hair from his forehead; "a mere trifle!" That the action had discovered the gash to be wider than he thought, he saw in the countenance of his wife! She turned deadly pale. "Marion," said he, "to convince you how causeless your fears are, you shall cure me yourself; and with no other surgery than your girdle!"
When Lady Wallace heard his gay tone, and saw the unforced smiles on his lips, she took courage; and, remembering the deep wounds of the stranger, which she had just assisted to dress, without any alarm for his life, she began to hope that she need not now fear for the object dearest to her in existence. Rising from her husband's arms, with a languid smile she unbound the linen fillet from her waist; and Halbert having poured some balsam into the wound, she prepared to apply the bandage; but when she lifted her husband's hair from his temple–that hair which had so often been the object of her admiration, as it hung in shining masses over his arching brows!–when the clotted blood met her fingers, a mist seemed to pass over his sight: she paused for a moment; but rallying her strength, as the cheerful sound of his voice conversing with his guest assured her fear was groundless, she tied the fillet; and, stealing a soft kiss on his cheek when she had finished, she seated herself, yet trembling, by his side.
"Gallant Wallace!" continued the stranger–agitation had prevented her hearing what had preceded this,–"it is Donald Earl of Mar, who owes his life to you."
"Then blessed be my arm," exclaimed Wallace, "that has preserved a life so precious to my country!"
"May it indeed be blessed!" cried Lord Mar; "for this night it has made the Southrons feel there is yet one man in Scotland who does not fear to resist oppression, and to punish treachery."
"What treachery?" inquired Lady Wallace, her alarmed spirit still hovering about her soul's far dearer part: "is any meant to my husband?"
"None to Sir William Wallace, more than to any other brave Scot," replied the earl; "but we all see the oppression of our country; we all know the treachery by which it was subjugated; and this night, in my own person, I have felt the effects of both. The English at Lanark despatched a body of men to Bothwell Castle (where my family now are) on a plea, that as its lord is yet absent, they presume he is adverse to Edward; and therefore they must search his dwelling for documents to settle the point. Considering myself the representative of my brother-in-law, Lord Bothwell, and suspecting that this might be only a private marauding party, I refused to admit the soldiers; and saw them depart, swearing to return the next day with a stronger force, and storm the castle. To be ascertained of their commission, and to appeal against such unprovoked tyranny, should it be true, I followed the detachment to Lanark.
"I saw Heselrigge, the governor. He avowed the transaction; but awed by the power which he thinks I possess in the country, he consented to spare Bothwell while I and my family remain in it. It being nearly dark, I took my leave, and was proceeding towards my servants in the courtyard, when a young man accosted me. I recognised him to be the officer who had commanded the party I had driven from the castle. Heselrigge having told me that he was his nephew, I made no hesitation to go back with him, when he informed me that his uncle had forgotten something of importance, and begged me to return. I followed his steps; but instead of conducting me to the room in which I had conversed with Heselrigge, he led me along a dark passage into a small apartment, where, telling me his uncle would attend me, he suddenly retreated out of the door, and before I could recollect myself I heard him bolt it after him.
"I now saw myself a prisoner; and alarmed at what might be intended to my defenceless family, I made every essay to force the door, but it was in vain. Driven to despair, I remained in a state of mind not to be described, when the bolt was withdrawn, and two men entered, with manacles in their hands. They attempted to seize me, telling me I was the prisoner of King Edward. I did not listen further, but wounding one with my dagger, felled the other to the ground; and, darting past him, made my way through what passages I cannot tell, till I found myself in a street leading from behind the governor's house. I ran against some one as I rushed from the portal; it was my servant Neil. I hastily told him to draw his sword and follow me. We then hurried forward; he telling me he had stepped out to observe the night, while the rest of my men were awaiting me in the house, wondering at my delay.
"Rejoiced at my escape, and fearing the worst of consequences from the treachery of Heselrigge, I was hastening onward, determined to pursue my way on foot to the protection of my family, when, at the turning of an angle which leads to the Bothwell road, we were suddenly surrounded by armed men. The moon shone full on their faces, and I discovered they were Southrons, and that young Heselrigge was at their head.
"He aimed a blow at my head with his battle-axe, and in a voice of triumph exclaimed to his soldiers, 'The plunder of Bothwell, my lads! Down with its lord! all but the Lady Helen shall be yours!'
"In a moment every sword was directed towards me. They wounded me in several places; but the thought of my daughter gave supernatural vigor to my arm, and I defended myself till the cries of my servant brought you, my brave deliverer, to my rescue. But, while I am safe, perhaps my treacherous pursuer has marched towards Bothwell, too sure to commit the horrid violence he meditates: there are none to guard my child but a few domestics, the unpractised sword of my stripling nephew, and the feeble arms of my wife."
"Be easy on that head," interrupted Wallace: "I believe the infamous leader of the banditti fell by my hand, for the soldiers made an outcry that Arthur Heselrigge was killed; and then pressing on me to take revenge, their weight broke a passage into a vault, through which I escaped–"
"Save, save yourself, my master!" cried a man, rushing in from the garden. "You are pursued–"
While he spoke he fell insensible at Wallace's feet. It was Dugald–whom he had rescued from the blow of Heselrigge, and who, from the state of his wound, had been thus long in reaching Ellerslie.
Wallace had hardly time to give him to the care of Halbert, when the voice of war assailed his ears. The tumult of men demanding admittance, and the terrific sound of spears rattling against the shields of their owners, told the astonished group within that the house was beset by armed foes.
"Blood for blood!" cried a horrid voice, which penetrated the almost palsied senses of Lady Marion. "Vengeance on Wallace, for the murder of Heselrigge!"
"Fly, fly!" cried she, looking wildly at her husband.
"Whither?" answered he, supporting her in his arms. "Would this be a moment to leave you, and our wounded guest? I must meet them."
"Not now!" cried Lord Mar. "Hear you not how numerous they are? Mark that shout! they thirst for blood. If you have love, pity for your wife, delay not a moment. Again–"
The uproar redoubled, and the room was instantly filled with shrieking women, in their night-clothes, the attendants of Lady Wallace. She lay, almost expiring, on her husband's breast.
"O my lord!" cried the terrified creatures, wringing their hands, "what will become of us! The Southrons are at the gates, and we shall be lost for ever!"
"Fear not," replied Wallace; "retire to your chambers. I am the person they seek: none else will meet with injury."
Appeased by this assurance, the women retreated to their apartments; and Wallace, turning to the earl, who continued to enforce the necessity of his flight, repeated, that he would not consent to leave his wife in such a tumult.
"Leave me," cried she, in an inarticulate voice, "or see me die."
As she spoke, there was a violent crash, and a tremendous burst of imprecations. Three of Wallace's men ran panting into the room. Two of the assailants had climbed to the hall window; and had just been thrown back upon the cliffs, where one was killed. "Conceal yourself," said the Scots to Wallace; "for in a few minutes more your men will not be able to maintain the gates."
"Yes, my dear lord," cried Halbert, "there is the dry well at the end of the garden; at the bottom of that you will be safe."
"By your love for me, Wallace–by all you owe to the tender affections of your grandfather, hearken to him!" cried Lady Marion, falling at his feet and clasping his knees. "I kneel for my life in kneeling for yours! Pity the gray hairs of Sir Ronald, whom your untimely death would bring to the grave! Pity your unborn child! Fly, Wallace, fly, if you would have me live!" She was pale and breathless.
"Angel of my life," exclaimed Wallace, straining her to his heart, "I obey thee. But if the hand of one of these desperate robbers dares to touch thy hallowed person–"
"Think not so, my lord," interrupted Halbert; "it is you they seek. Not finding you, they will be too eager in pursuit to molest your lady."
"I shall be safe," whispered Marion; "only fly–while you are here, their shouts kill me."
"But thou shalt go with me," returned he; "the well will contain us all. But first let our faithful Halbert and these honest fellows lower Lord Mar into the place of refuge. He being the cause of the affray, if discovered, would be immediately sacrificed."
Lord Mar acquiesced; and while the contention was so loud without, as to threaten the tearing down of the walls, the earl was carried into the garden. He was followed by Sir William Wallace, to whose arm his wife yet fondly clung. At every cry of the enemy, at every shock they gave to his yet impregnable gates, she breathed the shorter, and was clasped by the lord of her heart, still more closely to his bosom.
At the well-side they found the earl bound with the rope that was to lower him to the bottom. By great care it was safely done; and the cord being brought up again, before it was tied round Wallace (for his agonized wife insisted he should descend next), he recollected that the iron box at his side might hurt the wounded nobleman by striking him in his descent; and, unbuckling it, he said it contained matters of great value, and ordered it to be lowered first.
Lord Mar, beneath, was releasing it from the rope, when a shout of triumph pierced their ears. A party of the English, having come round the heights, had leaped the wall of the garden, and were within a few yards of the well. For Wallace to descend now was impossible. "That tree!" whispered Marion, pointing to an oak near which they stood. As she spoke, she slid from his arms, and along with the venerable Halbert, who had seized her hand, disappeared amid the adjoining thicket. The two servants fled also.
Wallace, finding himself alone, the next instant, like one of his native eagles, was looking down from the towering top of the wood upon his enemies. They passed beneath him, denouncing vengeance upon the assassin of Arthur Heselrigge! One, who by the brightness of his armor seemed to be their leader, stopped under the tree, and complained he had so sprained his ankle in leaping the wall, he must wait a few minutes to recover himself. Several soldiers drew towards him; but he ordered them to pursue their duty, search the house, and bring Wallace, dead or alive, before him.
They obeyed; but others, who had gained admittance to the tower through the now forced gates, soon ran to him with information that the murderer could nowhere be found.
"But here is a gay ladie," cried one; "perhaps she can tell of his hiding-place." And at that moment Marion, with Halbert, appeared amongst a band of men. The lighted torches which the soldiers held, shone full on her face. Though pale as monumental marble, the exquisite beauty of her features, and the calm dignity which commanded from her eyes, awed the officer into respect and admiration.
"Soldiers, stand back!" cried he, advancing to Lady Wallace. "Fear not, madam." As the words passed his lips, a flight of arrows flew into the bosom of the tree. A piercing shriek from Marion was her only answer. "Hah! my lady's falcon!" cried Halbert, alarmed, doubly, for the fate of his master. A sudden agitation of the branches having excited an indefinite suspicion in a body of archers who stood near, with one impulse they had discharged their arrows to the spot. Halbert's ready excuse, both for the disturbance in the tree and his lady's shriek, was prompted and warranted true by the appearance of a large bird, which the rushing of the arrows had frighted from her nest: she rose suddenly from amongst the branches, and soared away, far to the east, with loud screams.
All being again still, Marion hoped that her husband had escaped any serious injury from the arrows; and turning with recovered composure to the officer, heard him, with a glow of comfort, reprimand his men for daring to draw their bows without his orders. Then addressing her, "I beg your pardon, madam," said he, "both for the alarm these hot-headed men have occasioned you, and for the violence they have committed in forcing one of your sex and beauty before me. Had I expected to have found a lady here, I should have issued orders to have prevented this outrage; but I am sent hither in quest of Sir William Wallace, who, by a mortal attack made on the person of the governor of Lanark's nephew, has forfeited his life. The scabbard of his sword, found beside the murdered Heselrigge, is an undeniable proof of his guilt. Direct us to find him, and not only release, but the favor of the English monarch will await your allegiance."
"I am Sir William Wallace's wife," returned the gentle Marion, in a firm tone; "and by what authority you seek him thus, and presume to call him guilty, I cannot understand."
"By the authority of the laws, madam, which he has violated."
"What laws?" rejoined she; "Sir William Wallace acknowledges none but those of God, and his country. Neither of these has he transgressed."
The officer replied, "This night he assassinated Arthur Heselrigge in the streets of Lanark; and that condemns him, by the last declaration of King Edward:–Whatever Scot maltreats any one of the English soldiers, or civil officers, garrisoned in the towns of Scotland, shall thereby forfeit his life, as the penalty of his crime."
"A tyrant's law, sir, to which no freeborn Scot will submit! But even were it allowed by my countrymen, in this case it can have no hold on my husband. That he is a Scot, he glories; and not that he maltreated any Englishman in the streets of Lanark, do I glory; but because, when he saw two defenseless men borne down by a band of armed soldiers, he exposed his unshielded breast in their defence! one of the two died, covered with wounds. That the governor's nephew also fell, was a just retribution for his heading so unequal a contest, and no crime in Sir William Wallace; for he slew him to preserve a feeble old man, who had a hundred English swords levelled at his life."
The officer paused for a moment, and then ordering his soldiers to fall further back, when they were at a sufficient distance, he offered to take Lady Wallace's hand. She withstood his motion with a reserved air, and said, "Speak, sir, what you would say, or allow me to retire."
"I mean not to offend you, noble lady," continued he: "had I a wife lovely as yourself, and I in like circumstances, I hope in the like manner she would defend my life and honor. I knew not the particulars of the affair in which Arthur Heselrigge fell, till I heard them from your lips. I can easily credit them, for I know his unmanly character. Wallace is a Scot, and acted in Scotland as Gilbert Hambledon would have done in England, were it possible for any vile foreigner to there put his foot upon the neck of a countryman of mine. Wherever you have concealed your husband, let it be a distant asylum. At present no track within the jurisdiction of Lanark will be left unsearched by the governor's indefatigable revenge."
Lady Wallace, overcome with gratitude at this generous speech of the English officer, uttered some inarticulate words, expressive more in sound than clearness, of her grateful feelings. Hambledon continued:–"I will use my influence with Heselrigge, to prevent the interior of your house being disturbed again; but it being in the course of military operations, I cannot free you from the disagreeable ceremony of a guard being placed to-morrow morning round the domains. This I know will be done to intercept Sir William Wallace, should he attempt to return."
"O! that he were indeed far distant!" thought the anxious Marion. The officer then added: "However, you shall be relieved of my detachment directly." And as he spoke, he waved his sword to them who had seized the harper. They advanced, still holding their prisoner. He ordered them to commit the man to him, and to sound. The trumpeter obeyed; and in a few seconds the whole detachment were assembled before their commander.
"Soldiers!" cried he, "Sir William Wallace has escaped our hands. Mount your horses, that we may return to Lanark, and search the other side of the town. Lead forth, and I will follow."
The troops obeyed, and falling back through the opened gates, left Sir Gilbert Hambledon alone with Lady Wallace and the wondering Halbert. The brave young man took the now no longer withdrawn hand of the grateful Marion, who had stood trembling while so many of her husband's mortal enemies were assembled under the place of his concealment.
"Noble Englishman," said she, as the last body of soldiers passed from her sight, "I cannot enough thank you for this generous conduct; but, should you or yours be ever in the like extremity with my beloved Wallace (and in these tyrannous times, what brave spirit can answer for its continued safety?) may the ear which has heard you this night, at that hour repay my gratitude!"
"Sweet lady," answered Hambledon, "I thank you for your prayer. God is indeed the benefactor of a true soldier; and though I serve my king, and obey my commanders, yet it is only to the Lord of battles that I look for a sure reward. And whether he pay me here with victories and honors, or take my soul through a rent in my breast, to receive my laurel in paradise, it is all one to Gilbert Hambledon. But the night is cold: I must see you safe within your own doors; and then, lady, farewell!"
Lady Wallace yielded to the impulse of his hand, and with redoubled haste, as she heard another rustling in the tree above her head. Hambledon did not notice it; but desiring Halbert to follow, in a few minutes disappeared with the agitated Marion into the house.
Wallace, whose spirit could ill brook the sight of his domains filled with hostile troops, and the wife of his bosom brought a prisoner before their commander, would instantly have braved all dangers, and have leaped down amongst them ; but at the instant he placed his foot on a lower bough to make a spring, the courteous address of Hambledon to his wife had made him hesitate. He listened to the replies of his Marion with exultation; and when the Englishman ordered his men to withdraw, and delivered himself so generously respecting the safety of the man he came to seize, Wallace could hardly prevent a brave confidence in such virtue from compelling him to come from his concealment, and thank his noble enemy on the spot. But in consideration that such disclosure would put the military duty and the generous nature of the officer at variance, he desisted, with such an agitation of spirit that the boughs had again shaken under him, and reawakened the alarm of his trembling wife.
"Omnipotent Virtue!" exclaimed Wallace to himself; "if it were possible that thy generous spirit could animate the breast of an invading conqueror, how soon would the vanquished cease to forget their former freedom, and learn to love their vassalage! This man's nobleness, how soon has it quenched the flame of vengeance with which, when I ascended this tree, I prayed for the extirpation of every follower of Edward!"
"Sir William! my master!" cried a well-known voice in a suppressed tone, as if still fearful of being overheard. It was Halbert's. "Speak, my dear lord; are you safe?"
"In heart and body!" returned Wallace, sliding from the tree, and leaping on the ground. "Only one of the arrows touched me; and that, merely striking my bugle, fell back amongst the leaves. I must now hasten to the dearest, the noblest of women!"
Halbert begged him to stay till they should hear the retreat from the English trumpets. "Till their troops are out of sight," added he, "I cannot believe you safe."
"Hark!" cried Wallace, "the horses are now descending the crag. That must satisfy you, honest Halbert." With these words he flew across the grass, and entering the house, met the returning Marion, who had just bade farewell to Hambledon. She rushed into his arms, and with the excess of a disturbed and uncertain joy, fainted on his neck. Her gentle spirit had been too powerfully excited by the preceding scenes. Unaccustomed to tumult of any kind, and nursed in the bosom of fondness till now, no blast had blown on her tender form, no harshness had ever ruffled the blissful serenity of her mind. What then was the shock of this evening's violence! Her husband pursued as a murderer; herself exposed to the midnight air, and dragged by the hands of merciless soldiers to betray the man she loved! All these scenes were new to her; and though a kind of preternatural strength had supported her through them, yet when the cause of immediate exertion was over, when she fell once more into her husband's extended arms, she seemed there to have found again her shelter, and the pillow whereon her harassed soul might repose.
"My life! my best treasure; preserver of thy Wallace! look on him!" exclaimed he; "bless him with a smile from those dear eyes."
His voice, his caresses, soon restored her to sensibility and recollection. She wept on his breast, and with love's own eloquence, thanked Heaven that he had escaped the search and the arrows of his enemies.
"But, my dear lady," interrupted Halbert, "remember my master must not stay here. You know the English commander said he must fly far away. Nay, spies may even now be lurking to betray him."
"You are right," cried she. "My Wallace, you must depart. Should the guard arrive soon, your flight may be prevented. You must go now–but, oh! whither?"
"Not very distant, my love. In going from thee, I leave behind all that makes life precious to me; how then can I go far away? No! there are recesses among the Cartlane craigs, I discovered while hunting, and which I believe have been visited by no mortal foot but my own. There will I be, my Marion, before sunrise; and before it sets, thither must you send Halbert, to tell me how you fare. Three notes from thine own sweet strains of Thusa ha measg na reultan mor, * blown by his pipe, shall be a sign to me that he is there; and I will come forth to hear tidings of thee."
"Ah, my Wallace, let me go with thee!"
"What, dearest!" returned he, "to live amidst rocks and streams! to expose thy tender self, and thine unborn infant, to all the accidents of such a lodging!"
"But are not you going to so rough, so dangerous a lodging?" asked she: "O! would not rocks and streams be heaven's paradise to me, when blessed with the presence of my husband? Ah! let me go."
"Impossible, my lady," cried Halbert, afraid that the melting heart of his master would consent: "you are safe here, and your flight would awaken suspicion in the English that he had not gone far. Your ease and safety are dearer to him than his own life; and most likely by his cares to preserve them he would be traced, and so fall a ready sacrifice to the enemy."
"It is true, my Marion; I could not preserve you in the places to which I go."
"But the hardships you will endure!" cried she; "to sleep on the cold stones, with no covering but the sky, or the dripping vault of some dreary cave! I have not courage to abandon you alone to such cruel rigors."
"Cease, my beloved!" interrupted he, "cease these groundless alarms. Neither rocks nor storms have any threats to me. It is only tender woman's cares that make man's body delicate. Before I was thine, my Marion, I have lain whole nights upon the mountain's brow, counting the wintry stars, as I impatiently awaited the hunter's horn that was to recall me to the chase in Glenfinlass. Alike to Wallace is the couch of down or the bed of heather; so, best-beloved of my heart, grieve not at hardships which were once my sport, and will now be my safety."
"Then farewell! May good angels guard thee!" Her voice failed; she put his hand to her lips.
"Courage, my Marion," said he; "remember that Wallace lives but in thee. Revive, be happy for my sake; and God, who putteth down the oppressor, will restore me to thine arms." She spoke not, but rising from his breast, clasped her hands together, and looked up with an expression of fervent prayer; then smiling through a shower of tears, she waved her hand to him to depart, and instantly disappeared into her own chamber.
Wallace gazed at the closed door, with his soul in his eyes. To leave his Marion thus, to quit her who was the best part of his being, who seemed the very spring of the life now throbbing in his heart, was a contention with his fond, fond love, almost too powerful for his resolution. Here indeed his brave spirit gave way; and he would have followed her, and perhaps have determined to await his fate at her side, had not Halbert, reading his mind in his countenance, taken him by the arm, and drawn him towards the portal.
Wallace soon recovered his better reason, and obeying the friendly impulse of his servant, accompanied him through the garden to the quarter which pointed towards the heights that led to the remotest recesses of the Clyde. In their way they approached the well where Lord Mar lay. Finding that the earl had not been inquired for, Wallace deemed his stay to be without peril; and intending to inform him of the necessity which still impelled his own flight, he called to him, but no voice answered. He looked down, and seeing him extended on the bottom, without motion, "I fear," said he, "the earl is dead. As soon as I am gone, and you can collect the dispersed servants, send one into the well to bring him forth; and if he be indeed no more, deposit his body in my oratory, till you can receive his widow's commands respecting his remains. The iron box now in the well is of inestimable value; take it to Lady Wallace and tell her she must guard it, as she has done my life; but not to look into it, at the peril of what is yet dearer to her–my honor."
Halbert promised to adhere to his master's orders; and Wallace, girding on his sword, and taking his hunting-spear (with which the care of his venerable domestic had provided him), he pressed the faithful hand that presented it, and again enjoining him to be watchful of the tranquillity of his lady, and to send him tidings of her in the evening, to the cave near the Corie Lynn, he climbed the wall and was out of sight in an instant.
* Thusa ha measg na reultan mor, &c., are the beginning words of an old Gaelic ditty, the English of which runs thus:–"Thou who art amid the stars, move to thy bed with music," &c.–(1809.)
ALBERT returned to the house; and entering the room softly, into which
Marion had withdrawn, behold her on her knees before a crucifix: she was
praying for the safety of her husband.
"May he, O gracious Lord," cried she, "soon return to his home. But if I am to see him here no more, oh, may it please Thee to grant me to meet him within thy arms in heaven!"
"Hear her, blessed Son of Mary!" ejaculated the old man. She looked round, and rising from her knees, demanded of him, in a kind but anxious voice, whether he had left her lord in security.
"In the way to it, my lady!" answered Halbert. He repeated all that Wallace had said at parting, and then tried to prevail on her to go to rest. "Sleep cannot visit my eyes this night, my faithful creature," replied she; "my spirit will follow Wallace in his mountain flight. Go you to your chamber. After you have had repose, that will be time enough to revisit the remains of the poor earl, and to bring them with the box to the house. I will take a religious charge of both, for the sake of the dear intruster."
Halbert persuaded his lady to lie down on the bed, that her limbs at least might rest after the fatigue of so harassing a night; and she, little suspecting that he meant to do otherwise than to sleep also, kindly wished him repose, and retired.
Her maids, during the late terror, had dispersed, and were nowhere to be found; and the men, too, after their stout resistance at the gates, had all disappeared; some fled, others were sent away prisoners to Lanark, while the good Hambledon was conversing with their lady. Halbert, therefore, resigned himself to await with patience the rising of the sun, when he hoped some of the scared domestics would return; if not, he determined to go to the cotters who lived in the depths of the glen, and bring some of them to supply the place of the fugitives; and a few, with stouter hearts, to guard his lady.
Thus musing, he sat on a stone bench in the hall, watching anxiously the appearance of that orb, whose setting beams he hoped would light him back with tidings of Sir William Wallace to comfort the lonely heart of his Marion. All seemed at peace. Nothing was heard but the sighing of the trees as they waved before the western window, which opened towards the Lanark hills. The morning was yet gray, and the fresh air blowing in rather chilly, Halbert rose to close the wooden shutter; at that moment his eyes were arrested by a party of armed men in quick march down the opposite declivity. In a few minutes more their heavy steps sounded in his ears, and he saw the platform before the house filled with English. Alarmed at the sight, he was retreating across the apartment, towards his lady's room, when the great hall door was burst open by a band of soldiers, who rushed forward and seized him.
"Tell me, dotard!" cried their leader, a man of low stature, with gray locks, but a fierce countenance, "where is the murderer? Where is Sir William Wallace? Speak, or the torture shall force you."
Halbert shuddered, but it was for his defenceless lady, not for himself. "My master," said he, "is far from this."
"Where?"
"I know not."
"Thou shalt be made to know, thou hoary-headed villain!" cried the same violent interrogator. "Where is the assassin's wife? I will confront ye. Seek her out."
At that word the soldiers parted right and left, and in a moment afterwards three of them appeared, with shouts, bringing in the trembling Marion.
"Alas! my lady!" cried Halbert, struggling to approach her, as with terrified apprehension she looked around her; but they held her fast, and he saw her led up to the merciless wretch who had given the orders to have her summoned.
"Woman!" cried he, "I am the governor of Lanark. You now stand before the representative of the great King Edward, and on your allegiance to him, and on the peril of your life, I command you to answer me three questions. Where is Sir William Wallace, the murderer of my nephew? Who is that old Scot, for whom my nephew was slain? He and his whole family shall meet my vengeance! And tell me where is that box of treasure which your husband stole from Douglas Castle? Answer me these questions on your life."
Lady Wallace remained silent.
"Speak, woman!" demanded the governor. "If fear cannot move you, know that I can reward as well as avenge. I will endow you richly, if you declare the truth. If you persist to refuse, you die."
"Then I die," replied she, scarcely opening her half-closed ayes, as she leaned, fainting and motionless, against the soldier who held her.
"What!" cried the governor, stifling his rage, in hopes to gain by persuasion on a spirit he found threats could not intimidate; "How can so gentle a lady reject the favor of England; large grants in this country, and perhaps a fine English knight for a husband, when you might have all for the trifling service of giving up a traitor to his liege lord, and confessing where his robberies lie concealed? Speak, fair dame; give me this information, and the lands of the wounded chieftain whom Wallace brought here, with the hand of the handsome Sir Gilbert Hambledon, shall be your reward. Rich, and a beauty in Edward's court! Lady, can you now refuse to purchase all, by declaring the hiding-place of the traitor Wallace?"
"It is easier to die!"
"Fool!" cried Heselrigge, driven from his assumed temper by her steady denial. "What! is it easier for these dainty limbs to be hacked to pieces by my soldiers' axes? Is it easier for that fair bosom to be trodden underfoot by my horse's hoofs, and for that beauteous head of thine to decorate my lance? Is all this easier than to tell me where to find a murderer and his gold?"
Lady Wallace shuddered: she stretched her hands to heaven.
"Speak once for all!" cried the enraged governor, drawing his sword; "I am no waxen-hearted Hambledon, to be cajoled by your beauty. Declare where Wallace is concealed, or dread my vengeance."
The horrid steel gleamed across the eyes of the unhappy Marion; unable to sustain herself, she sunk on the ground.
"Kneel not to me for mercy!" cried the fierce wretch; "I grant none, unless you confess your husband's hiding-place."
A momentary strength darted from the heart of Lady Wallace to her voice. "I kneel to Heaven alone, and may it ever preserve my Wallace from the fangs of Edward and his tyrants!"
"Blasphemous wretch!" cried the infuriate Heselrigge; and in that moment he plunged his sword into her defenceless breast. Halbert, who had all this time been held back by the soldiers, could not believe that the fierce governor would perpetrate the horrid deed he threatened; but seeing it done, with a giant's strength and a terrible cry he burst from the hands which held him, and had thrown himself on the bleeding Marion, before her murderer could strike his second blow. However, it fell, and pierced through the neck of the faithful servant before it reached her heart. She opened her dying eyes, and seeing who it was that would have shielded her life, just articulated, "Halbert! my Wallace–to God–" and with the last unfinished sentence her pure soul took its flight to regions of eternal peace.
The good old man's heart almost burst, when he felt that before heaving bosom now motionless; and groaning with grief, and fainting with loss of blood, he lay senseless on her body
A terrific stillness was now in the hall. Not a man spoke; all stood looking on each other, with a stern horror marking each pale countenance. Heselrigge, dropping his blood-stained sword on the ground, perceived by the behavior of his men that he had gone too far, and fearful of arousing the indignation of awakened humanity, to some act against himself, he addressed the soldiers in an unusual accent of condescension:–"My friends," said he, "we will now return to Lanark: to-morrow you may come back, for I reward your services of this night with the plunder of Ellerslie."
"May a curse light on him who carries a stick from its grounds!" exclaimed a veteran, from the further end of the hall. "Amen!" murmured all the soldiers, with one consent; and falling back, they disappeared, one by one, out of the great door, leaving Heselrigge alone with the soldier, who stood leaning on his sword looking on the murdered lady.
"Grimsby, why stand you there?" demanded Heselrigge: "follow me."
"Never," returned the soldier.
"What!" exclaimed the governor, momentarily forgetting his panic, "dare you speak thus to your commander? March on before me this instant, or expect to be treated as a rebel."
"I march at your command no more," replied the veteran, eyeing him resolutely: "the moment you perpetrated this bloody deed, you became unworthy the name of man; and I should disgrace my own manhood, were I ever again to obey the word of such a monster!"
"Villain!" cried the enraged Heselrigge, "you shall die for this!"
"That may be," answered Grimsby, "by the hands of some tyrant like yourself; but no brave man, not the royal Edward, would do otherwise than acquit his soldier for refusing obedience to the murderer of an innocent woman. It was not so he treated the wives and daughters of the slaughtered Saracens when I followed his banners over the fields of Palestine!"
"Thou canting miscreant!" cried Heselrigge, springing on him suddenly, and aiming his dagger at his breast. But the soldier arrested the weapon, and at the same instant closing upon the assassin, with a turn of his foot threw him to the ground. Heselrigge, as he lay prostrate, seeing his dagger in his adversary's hand, with the most dastardly promises, implored for life.
"Monster!" cried the soldier, "I would not pollute my honest hands with such unnatural blood. Neither, though thy hand has been lifted against my life, would I willingly take thine. It is not rebellion against my commander that actuates me, but hatred of the vilest of murderers. I go far from you, or your power; but if you forswear your voluntary oath, and attempt to seek me out for vengeance, remember it is a soldier of the cross you pursue, and a dire retribution shall be demanded by Heaven, at a moment you cannot avoid, and with a horror commensurate with your crimes."
There was a solemnity and determination in the voice and manner of the soldier that paralyzed the intimidated soul of the governor; he trembled violently, and repeating his oath of leaving Grimsby unmolested, at last obtained his permission to return to Lanark. The men, in obedience to the conscience-struck orders of their commander, had mounted their horses, and were now far out of sight. Heselrigge's charger was still in the courtyard; he was hurrying towards it, but the soldier, with a prudent suspicion, called out, "Stop, sir! you must walk to Lanark. The cruel are generally false: I cannot trust your word, should you have the power to break it. Leave this horse here–to-morrow you may send for it, I shall then be far away."
Heselrigge saw that remonstrance would be unavailing; and shaking with impotent rage, he turned into the path which, after five weary miles, would lead him once more to his citadel.
From the moment the soldier's manly spirit had dared to deliver its abhorrence of Lady Wallace's murder, he was aware that his life would no longer be safe within reach of the machinations of Heselrigge; and determined, alike by detestation of him, and regard for his own preservation, he resolved to take shelter in the mountains, till he could have an opportunity of going beyond sea to join his king's troops in the Guienne wars.
Full of these thoughts, he returned into the hall. As he approached the bleeding group on the floor, he perceived it move; hoping that perhaps the unhappy lady might not be dead, he drew near; but, alas! as he bent to examine, he touched her hand and found it quite cold. The blood which had streamed from the now exhausted heart, lay congealed upon her arms and bosom. Grimsby shuddered. Again, he saw her move; but it was not with her own life; the recovering senses of her faithful servant, as his arms clung around the body, had disturbed the remains of her who would wake no more.
On seeing that existence yet struggled in one of these blameless victims, Grimsby did his utmost to revive the old man. He raised him from the ground, and poured some strong liquor he had in a flask into his mouth. Halbert breathed freer; and his kind surgeon, with the venerable harper's own plaid, bound up the wound in his neck. Halbert opened his eyes. When he fixed them on the rough features and English helmet of the soldier, he closed them again with a deep groan.
"My honest Scot," said Grimsby, "trust in me. I am man like yourself; and though a Southron, am no enemy to age and helplessness."
The harper took courage at these words: he again looked at the soldier; but suddenly recollecting what had passed, he turned his eyes towards the body of his mistress, on which the beams of the now rising sun were shining. He started up, and staggering towards her, would have fallen, had not Grimsby supported him. "O what a sight is this!" cried he, wringing his hands. "My lady! my lovely lady! see how low she lies who was once the delight of all eyes, the comforter of all hearts." The old man's sobs suffocated him. The veteran turned away his face; a tear dropped upon his hand. "Accursed Heselrigge," ejaculated he, "thy fate must come!"
"If there be a man's heart in all Scotland, it is not far distant!" cried Halbert. "My master lives, and will avenge this murder. You weep, soldier, and you will not betray what has now escaped me."
"I have fought in Palestine," returned he, "and a soldier of the cross betrays none who trust him. Saint Mary preserve your master and conduct you safely to him. We must both hasten hence. Heselrigge will surely send in pursuit of me. He is too vile to forgive the truth I have spoken to him; and should I fall into his power, death is the best I could expect at his hands. Let me assist you to put this poor lady's remains into some decent place; and then, my honest Scot, we must separate."
Halbert, at these words, threw himself upon the bosom of his mistress, and wept with loud lamentations over her. In vain he attempted to raise her in his feeble arms. "I have carried thee scores of times in thy blooming infancy," cried he; "and now must I bear thee to thy grave? I had hoped that my eyes would have been closed by this dear hand." As he spoke, he pressed her cold hand to his lips with such convulsive sobs that the soldier, fearing he would expire in the agony of his sorrow, took him almost motionless from the dead body, and exhorted him to suppress such self-destroying grief for the sake of his master. Halbert gradually revived, and listening to him, cast a wishful look on the lifeless Marion.
"There sleeps the pride and hope of Ellerslie, the mother with her child! O my master, my widowed master," cried he, "what will comfort thee!"
Fearing the ill consequence of further delay, the soldier again interrupted his lamentations with arguments for flight; and Halbert recollecting the oratory in which Wallace had ordered the body of Lord Mar to be deposited, named it for that of his dead lady. Grimsby, immediately wrapping the beauteous corse in the white garments which hung about it, raised it in his arms, and was conducted by Halbert to a little chapel in the heart of a neighboring cliff.
The still weeping old man removed the altar; and Grimsby, laying the shrouded Marion upon its rocky platform, covered her with the pall, which he drew from the holy table, and laid the crucifix upon her bosom. Halbert, when his beloved mistress was thus hidden from his sight, threw himself on his knees beside her, and in the vehement language of grief, offered up a prayer for her departed soul.
"Hear me, righteous Judge of heaven and earth!" cried he; "as thou didst avenge the blood of innocence shed in Bethlehem, so let the gray hairs of Heselrigge be brought down in blood to the grave for the murder of this innocent lady!" Halbert kissed the cross; and rising from his knees, went weeping out of the chapel, followed by the soldier.
Having closed the door, and carefully locked it, absorbed in meditation on what would be the agonizing transports of his master, when he should tell him these grievous tidings, Halbert proceeded in silence, till he and his companion in passing the well were startled by a groan.
"Here is some one in extremity!" cried the soldier. "Is it possible he lives!" exclaimed Halbert, bending down to the edge of the well with the same inquiry. "Yes," feebly answered the earl, "I still exist, but am very faint. If all be safe above, I pray remove me into the upward air!" Halbert replied that it was indeed necessary he should ascend immediately; and lowering the rope, told him to tie the iron box to it and then himself. This done, with some difficulty, and the assistance of the wondering soldier (who now expected to see the husband of the unfortunate Lady Wallace emerge to the knowledge of his loss), he at last effected the earl's release. For a few seconds the fainting noble man supported himself on his countryman's shoulder, while the fresh morning breeze gradually revived his exhausted frame. The soldier looked at his gray locks and furrowed brow, and marveled how such proofs of age could belong to the man whose resistless valor had discomfited the fierce determination of Arthur Heselrigge and his myrmidons. However, his doubts of the veteran before him being other than the brave Wallace were soon satisfied by the earl himself, who asked for a draught of the water which trickled down the opposite hill; and while Halbert went to bring it, Lord Mar raised his eyes to inquire for Sir William and the Lady Marion. He started when he saw English armor on the man he would have accosted, and rising suddenly from the stone on which he sat, demanded in a stern voice, "Who art thou?"
"An Englishman," answered the soldier; "one who does not, like the monster Heselrigge, disgrace the name. I would assist you, noble Wallace, to fly this spot. After that, I shall seek refuge abroad; and there, on the fields of Guienne, demonstrate my fidelity to my king."
Mar looked at him steadily. "You mistake; I am not Sir William Wallace."
At that moment, Halbert came up with the water. The earl drank it, though now, from the impulse surprise had given to his blood, he did not require its efficacy; and turning to the venerable bearer, he asked of him whether his master were safe.
"I trust he is," replied the old man; "but you, my lord, must hasten hence. A foul murder has been committed here, since he left it."
"But where is Lady Wallace?" asked the earl; "if there be such danger we must not leave her to meet it."
"She will never meet danger more!" cried the old man, clasping his hands; "she is in the bosom of the Virgin; and no second assassin's steel can reach her there."
"What!" exclaimed the earl, hardly articulate with horror, "is Lady Wallace murdered?" Halbert answered only by his tears.
"Yes," said the soldier; "and detestation of so unmanly an outrage, provoked me to desert his standard. But no time must now be lost in unavailing lamentation. Heselrigge will return; and if we also would not be sacrificed to his rage, we must hence immediately."
The earl, struck dumb at this recital, gave the soldier time to recount the particulars. When he had finished, Lord Mar saw the necessity for instant flight, and ordered horses to be brought from the stables. Though he had fainted in the well, the present shock gave such tension to his nerves, that he found, in spite of his wound, he could now ride without difficulty.
Halbert went as commanded, and returned with two horses. Having only amongst rocks and glens to go, he did not bring one for himself; and begging the good soldier might attend the earl to Bothwell, he added, "He will guard you and this box, which Sir William Wallace holds as his life. What it contains I know not; and none, he says, may dare to search into. But you will take care of it for his sake, till more peaceful times allow him to reclaim his own!"
"Fatal box!" cried the soldier, regarding it with an abhorrent eye, "that was the leading cause which brought Heselrigge to Ellerslie."
"How?" inquired the earl. Grimsby then briefly related, that immediately after the return to Lanark of the detachment sent to Ellerslie, under the command of Sir Gilbert Hambledon, an officer arrived from the English garrison in Douglas, and told the governor that Sir William Wallace had that evening taken a quantity of treasure from the castle. His report was, that the English soldiers who stood near the Scottish knight when he mounted at the castle gate, saw a long iron coffer under his arm, but not suspecting its having belonged to Douglas, they thought not of it, till they overheard Sir John Monteith as he passed through one of the galleries, muttering something about gold and a box. To intercept the robber amongst his native glens, the soldiers deemed impractible, and therefore their captain came immediately to lay the information before the governor of Lanark. As the scabbard found in the affray with young Arthur, had betrayed the victor to have been Sir William Wallace, this intimation of his having been also the instrument of wrestling from the grasp of Heselrigge, perhaps the most valuable spoil in Douglas, exasperated him to the most vindictive excess. Inflamed with the double furies of revenge and avarice, he ordered out a new troop, and placing himself at its head, took the way to Ellerslie. One of the servants, whom some of Hambledon's men had seized for the sake of information, on being threatened with the torture, confessed to Heselrigge, that not only Sir William Wallace was in the house when it was attacked, but that the person whom he had rescued in the streets of Lanark, and who proved to be a wealthy nobleman, was there also. This whetted the eagerness of the governor to reach Ellerslie; and expecting to get a rich booty, without the most distant idea of the horrors he was going to perpetrate, a large detachment of men followed him.
"To extort money from you, my Lord," continued the soldier, "and to obtain that fatal coffer, were his main objects; but disappointed in his darling passion of avarice, he forgot he was a man, and the blood of innocence glutted his barbarous vengeance."
"Hateful gold" cried Lord Mar, spurning the box with his foot; "it cannot be for itself the noble Wallace so greatly prizes it; it must be a trust."
"I believe it is," returned Halbert, "for he enjoined my lady to preserve it for the sake of his honor. Take care of it then, my Lord, for the same sacred reason."
The Englishman make no objection to accompany the earl; and by a suggestion of his own, Halbert brought him a Scottish bonnet and cloak from the house. While he put them on, the earl observed that the harper held a drawn and blood-stained sword in his hand, on which he steadfastly gazed. "Whence came that horrid weapon?" cried Lord Mar.
"It is my lady's blood," replied Halbert, still looking on it. "I found it where she lay, in the hall, and I will carry it to my master. Was not every drop of her blood dear to him? and here are many." As the old man spoke, he bent his head on the sword, and groaned heavily.
"England shall hear more of this!" cried Mar, as he threw himself across the horse. "Give me that fatal box; I will buckle it to my saddle-bow. Inadequate will be my utmost care of it, to repay the vast sorrows its preservation and mine have brought upon the head of my deliverer."
The Englishman in silence mounted his horse, and Halbert opened a back-gate that led to the hills which lay between Ellerslie and Bothwell Castle. Lord Mar took a golden-trophied bugle from his breast: "Give this to your master, and tell him that by whatever hands he sends it, the sight of it shall always command the services of Donald Mar. I go to Bothwell, in expectation that he will join me there. In making it his home he will render me happy, for my friendship is now bound to him by bonds which only death can sever."
Halbert took the horn, and promising faithfully to repeat the earl's message, prayed God to bless him and the honest soldier. A rocky promontory soon excluded them from his sight, and in a few minutes more even the sound of their horses' hooves was lost on the soft herbage of the winding dell.
"Now I am along in this once happy spot. Not a voice, not a sound. Oh! Wallace!" cried he, throwing up his venerable arms, "thy house is left unto thee desolate, and I am to be the fatal messenger." With the last words he struck into a deep ravine which led to the remotest solitudes of the glen, and pursued his way in dreadful silence. No human face of Scot or English cheered or scared him as he passed along. The tumult of the preceding night, by dispersing the servants of Ellerslie, had so alarmed the poor cottagers, that with one accord they fled to their kindred on the hills, amid those fastnesses of nature, to await tidings from the valley, of when all should be still, and they might return in peace. Halbert looked to the right and to the left; no smoke, curling its gray mist from behind the intersecting rocks reminded him of the gladsome morning hour, or invited him to take a moment's rest from his grievous journey. All was lonely and comfortless; and sighing bitterly over the wide devastation, he concealed the fatal sword and the horn under his cloak, and with a staff which he broke from a withered tree, took his way down the winding craigs. Many a pointed flint pierced his aged feet, while exploring the almost trackless paths, which by their direction he hoped would lead him at length to the deep caves of Corie Lynn.
FTER having traversed many a weary rood of, to him, before untrodden ground, the venerable minstrel of the house of Wallace, exhausted by fatigue, sat down on the declivity of a steep craig. The burning beams of the midday sun now beat upon the rocks, but the overshadowing foliage afforded him shelter, and a few berries from the brambles, which knit themselves over the path he had yet to explore, with a draught of water from the friendly burn, offered themselves to revive his enfeebled limbs. Insufficient as they appeared, he took them, blessing Heaven for sending even these, and strengthened by half an hour's rest, again he grasped his staff to pursue his way.
After breaking a passage through the entangled shrubs that grew across the only possible footing in this solitary wilderness, he went along the side of the expanding stream, which at every turning of the rocks increased in depth and violence. The rills from above, and other mountain brooks, pouring from abrupt falls down the craigs, covered him with spray, and intercepted his passage. Finding it impracticable to proceed through the rushing torrent of a cataract, whose distant roarings might have intimidated even a young adventurer, he turned from its tumbling waters which burst from his sight, and crept on his hands and knees up the opposite acclivity, catching by the fern and other weeds to stay him from falling back into the flood below. Prodigious craggy heights towered above his head as he ascended; while the rolling clouds which canopied their summits, seemed descending to wrap him in their "fleecy skirts;" or the projecting rocks bending over the waters of the glen, left him only a narrow shelf in the cliff, along which he crept till it brought him to the mouth of a cavern.
He must either enter it or return the way he came, or attempt the descent of overhanging precipices, which nothing could surmount but the pinions of their native birds. Above him was the mountain. Retread his footsteps until he had seen his beloved master, he was resolved not to do–to perish in these glens would be more tolerable to him; for while he moved forward, hope, even in the arms of death, would cheer him with the whisper that he was in the path of duty. He therefore entered the cavity, and passing on, soon perceived an aperture, through which emerging on the other side he found himself again on the margin of the river. Having attained a wider bed, it left him a still narrower causeway, to perform the remainder of his journey.
Huge masses of rock, canopied with a thick umbrage of firs, beech, and weeping-birch, closed over the glen and almost excluded the light of day. But more anxious, as he calculated by the increased rapidity of the stream he must now be approaching the great fall near his master's concealment, Halbert redoubled his speed. But an unlooked-for obstacle baffled his progress. A growing gloom he had not observed in the sky-excluded valley, having entirely overspread the heavens, at this moment suddenly discharged itself, amidst peals of thunder, in heavy floods of rain upon his head.
Fearful of being overwhelmed by the streams, which now on all sides crossed his path, he kept upon the edge of the river, to be as far as possible from the influence of their violence. And thus he proceeded, slowly and with trepidation, through numerous defiles, and under the plunge of many a mountain-torrent, till the augmented storm of a world of waters, dashing from side to side, and boiling up with the noise and fury of the contending elements above, told him he was indeed not far from the fall of Corie Lynn.
The spray was spread in so thick a mist over the glen, he knew not how to advance. A step further might be on the firm earth, but more probably illusive, and dash him into the roaring Lynn, where he would be ingulfed at once in its furious whirlpool. He paused and looked around. The rain had ceased, but the thunder still rolled at a distance, and echoed tremendously from the surrounding rocks. Halbert shook his gray locks, streaming with wet, and looked towards the sun, now gilding with its last rays the vast sheets of falling water.
"This is thine hour, my master!" exclaimed the old man; "and surely I am too near the Lynn to be far from thee!"
With these words he raised the pipe that hung at his breast, and blew three strains of the appointed air. In former days it used to call from her bower that "fair star of evening," the beauteous Marion, now departed for ever into her native heaven. The notes trembled as his agitated breath breathed them into the instrument; but feeble as they were, and though the roar of the cataract might have prevented their reaching a less attentive ear than that of Wallace, yet he sprang from the innermost recess under the fall, and dashing through its rushing waters, the next instant was at the side of Halbert.
"Faithful creature!" cried he, catching him in his arms, with all the joy of that moment which ends the anxious wish to learn tidings of what is dearest in the world, "how fares my Marion?"
"I am weary," cried the heart-stricken old man: "take me within your sanctuary, and I will tell you all."
Wallace perceived that his time-worn servant was indeed exhausted; and knowing the toils and hazards of the perilous track he must have passed over in his way to this fearful solitude; also remembering how, as he sat in his shelter, he had himself dreaded the effects of the storm upon so aged a traveller, he no longer wondered at the dispirited tone of his greeting, and readily accounted for the pale countenance and tremulous step which at first had excited his alarm.
Giving the old man his hand, he led him with caution to the brink of the Lynn; and then folding him in his arms, dashed with him through the tumbling water into the cavern he had chosen for his asylum. Halbert sunk against its rocky side, and putting forth his hand to catch some of the water as it fell, drew a few drops to his parched lips, and swallowed them. After this light refreshment, he breathed a little and turned his eyes upon his anxious master.
"Are you sufficiently recovered, Halbert, to tell me how you left my dearest Marion?"
Halbert dreaded to see the animated light which now cheered him from the eyes of his master, overclouded with the Cimmerian horrors his story must unfold: he evaded a direct reply: "I saw your guest in safety; I saw him and the iron box on their way to Bothwell."
"What!" inquired Wallace, "were we mistaken? was not the earl dead when we looked into the well?" Halbert replied in the negative, and was proceeding with a circumstantial account of his recovery and his departure when Wallace interrupted him.
"But what of my wife, Halbert? why tell me of others before of her? She whose safety and remembrance are now my sole comfort!"
"Oh, my dear lord!" cried Halbert, throwing himself on his knees in a paroxysm of mental agony, "she remembers you where best her prayers can be heard. She kneels for her beloved Wallace, before the throne of God!"
"Halbert!" cried Sir William, in a low and fearful voice, "what would you say? My Marion–speak! tell me in one word she lives!"
"In heaven!"
At this confirmation of a sudden terror, imbibed from the ambiguous words of Halbert, and which his fond heart would not allow him to acknowledge to himself, Wallace covered his face with his hands and fell with a deep groan against the side of the cavern. The horrid idea of premature maternal pains, occasioned by anguish for him; of her consequent death, involving perhaps that of her infant, struck him to the soul: a mist seemed passing over his eyes; life was receding; and gladly did he believe he felt his spirit on the eve of joining hers.
In having declared that the idol of his master's heart no longer existed for him in this world, Halbert thought he had revealed the worst, and he went on: "Her latest breath was spent in prayer for you. 'My Wallace' were the last words her angel spirit uttered as it issued from her bleeding wounds."
The cry that burst from the heart of Wallace, as he started on his feet at this horrible disclosure, seemed to pierce through all the recesses of the glen; and with an instantaneous and dismal return was re-echoed from rock. Halbert threw his arms round his master's knees. The frantic blaze of his eye struck him with affright. "Hear me, my lord; for the sake of your wife, now an angel hovering near you, hear what I have to say."
Wallace looked around with a wild countenance. "My Marion near me! Blessed spirit! Oh, my murdered wife! my unborn babe! Who made those wounds?" cried he, catching Halbert's arm with a tremendous though unconscious grasp; "tell me who had the heart to aim a blow at that angel's life?"
"The governor of Lanark," replied Halbert.
"How? for what?" demanded Wallace, with the terrific glare of madness shooting from his eyes. "My wife! my wife! what had she done?"
"He came at the head of a band of ruffians, and seizing my lady, commanded her on the peril of her life, to declare where you and the earl of Mar and the box of treasure were concealed. My lady persisted to refuse him information, and in a deadly rage he plunged his sword into her breast." Wallace clenched his hands over his face, and Halbert went on. "Before he aimed a second blow, I had broken from the men who held me, and thrown myself on her bosom; but all could not save her: the villain's sword had penetrated her heart!"
"Great God!" exclaimed Wallace, "dost thou hear this murder?" His hands were stretched towards heaven; then falling on his knees, with his eyes fixed, "Give me power, Almighty Judge!" cried he, "to assert thy justice! Let me avenge this angel's blood, and then take me to thy mercy!"
"My gracious master," cried Halbert, seeing him rise with a stern composure, "here is the fatal sword: the blood on it is sacred, and I brought it to you."
Wallace took it in his hand. He gazed at it, touched it, and kissed it frantically. The blade was hardly yet dry, and the ensanguined hue came off upon the pressure. "Marion! Marion!" cried he, "is it thine? Does thy blood stain my lip?" He paused for a moment, leaning his burning forehead against the fatal blade; then looking up with a terrific smile, "Beloved of my soul! never shall this sword leave my hand till it has drunk the life-blood of thy murderer."
"What is it you intend, my lord?" cried Halbert, viewing with increased alarm the resolute ferocity which now, blazing from every part of his countenance, seemed to dilate his figure with more than mortal daring. "What can you do? Your single arm–"
"I am not single–God is with me. I am his avenger. Now tremble, tyranny! I come to hurl thee down!" At the word he sprang from the cavern's mouth, and had already reached the topmost cliff when the piteous cries of Halbert penetrated his ear; they recalled him to recollection, and returning to his faithful servant, he tried to soothe his fears, and spoke in a composed though determined tone. "I will lead you from this solitude to the mountains, where the shepherds of Ellerslie are tending their flocks. With them you will find a refuge, till you have strength to reach Bothwell Castle. Lord Mar will protect you for my sake."
Halbert now remembered the bugle, and putting it into his master's hand, with its accompanying message, asked for some testimony in return, that the earl might know he had delivered it safely. "Even a lock of your precious hair, my beloved master, will be sufficient."
"Thou shalt have it, severed from my head by this accursed steel," answered Wallace, taking off his bonnet, and letting his amber locks fall in tresses on his shoulders. Halbert burst into a fresh flood of tears, for he remembered how often it had been the delight of Marion to comb these bright tresses and to twist them round her ivory fingers. Wallace looked up as the old man's sobs became audible, and read his thoughts: "It will never be again, Halbert," cried he, and with a firm grasp of the sword he cut off a large handful of his hair.
"Marion, thy blood hath marked it!" exclaimed he; "and every hair on my head shall be dyed of the same hue, before this sword is sheathed upon thy murderers. Here, Halbert," continued he, knotting it together, "take this to the earl of Mar: it is all, most likely, he will ever see again of William Wallace. Should I fall, tell him to look on that, and in my wrongs read the future miseries of Scotland, and remember that God armeth the patriot's hand. Let him act on that conviction, and Scotland may yet be free."
Halbert placed the lock in his bosom, but again repeated his entreaties, that his master would accompany him to Bothwell Castle. He urged the consolation he would meet from the good earl's friendship.
"If he indeed regard me," returned Wallace, "for my sake let him cherish you. My consolations must come from a higher hand: I go where it directs. If I live, you shall see me again; but twilight approaches–we must away. The sun must not rise again upon Heselrigge."
Halbert now followed the rapid steps of Wallace, who, assisting the feeble limbs of his faithful servant, drew him up the precipitous side of the Lynn, * and then leaping from rock to rock, awaited with impatience the slower advances of the poor old harper, as he crept round a circuit of overhanging cliffs, to join him on the summit of the craigs.
Together they struck into the most inaccessible defiles of the mountains, and proceeded, till on discerning smoke whitening with its ascending curls the black sides of the impending rocks, Wallace saw himself near the object of his search. He sprang on a high cliff projecting over this mountain-valley, and blowing his bugle with a few notes of the well-known pibroch of Lanarkshire, was answered by the reverberations of a thousand echoes.
At the loved sounds which had not dared to visit their ears since the Scottish standard was lowered to Edward, the hills seemed teeming with life. Men rushed from their fastnesses, and women with their babes eagerly followed, to see whence sprung a summons so dear to every Scottish heart. Wallace stood on the cliff, like the newly-aroused genius of his country; his long plaid floated afar, and his glittering hair, streaming on the blast, seemed to mingle with the golden fires which shot from the heavens. Wallace raised his eyes–a clash as of the tumult of contending armies filled the sky, and flames and flashing steel, and the horrid red of battle, streamed from the clouds upon the hills.*
"Scotsmen!" cried Wallace, waving the fatal sword, which blazed in the glare of these northern lights, like a flaming brand, "behold how the heavens cry aloud to you! I come, in the midst of their fires, to call you to vengeance. I come in the name of all ye hold dear, of the wives of your bosoms, and the children in their arms, to tell you the poniard of the England is unsheathed–innocence and age and infancy fall before it. With this sword, last night, did Heselrigge, the English tyrant of Lanark, break into my house, and murder my wife!"
The shriek of horror that burst from every mouth, interrupted Wallace. "Vengeance! vengeance!" was the cry of the men, while tumultuous lamentations for the "sweet Lady of Ellerslie," filled the air from the women.
Wallace sprang from the cliff into the midst of his brave countrymen. "Follow me, then, to strike the mortal blow."
"Lead on!" cried a vigorous old man. "I drew this stout claymore last in the battle of Largs. † Life and Alexander was then the word of victory: now, ye accursed Southrons, ye shall meet the slogen * of Death and Lady Marion."
"Death and Lady Marion!" was echoed with shouts from mouth to mouth. Every sword was drawn; and those hardy peasants who owned none, seizing the instruments of pasturage, armed themselves with wolf-spears, pickaxes, forks, and scythes.
Sixty resolute men now arranged themselves around their chief, Wallace, whose widowed heart turned icy cold at the dreadful slogen of his Marion's name, more fiercely grasped his sword, and murmured to himself, "From this hour may Scotland date her liberty, or Wallace return no more! My faithful friends," cried he, turning to his men, and placing his plumed bonnet on his head, "let the spirits of your fathers inspire your souls; ye go to assert that freedom for which they died. Before the moon sets, the tyrant of Lanark must fall in blood."
"Death and Lady Marion!" was the pealing answer that echoed from the hills.
Wallace again sprang on the cliffs. His brave peasants followed him; and taking their rapid march by a near cut through a hitherto unexplored defile of the Cartlane Craigs, leaping chasms, and climbing perpendicular rocks, they suffered no obstacles to impede their steps, while thus rushing onward like lions to their prey.
* The cavern which sheltered Sir William Wallace, near Corie Lynn, is yet revered by the people.
* The late duke of Gordon exhibited a similar scene to Prince Leopold, when his royal highness visited Gordon Castle, his "hills teeming with life."–(1830.)
† In the battle of Largs, Sir Malcolm Wallace, the father of Wallace, fell gloriously fighting against the Danes.–(1830)
* Slogen, so the war-word was termed.–(1809.)
HE women, and the men whom age withheld from so desperate an enterprise, now thronged around Halbert, to ask a circumstantial account of the disaster which had filled all with so much horror.
Many tears followed his recital; not one of his auditors was an indifferent listener; all had individually, or in persons dear to them, partaken of the tender Marion's benevolence. Their sickbeds had been comforted by her charity; her voice had often administered consolation to their sorrows; her hand had smoothed their pillows, and placed the crucifix before their dying eyes. Some had recovered to bless her, and some departed to record her virtues in heaven.
"Ah! is she gone?" cried a young woman, raising her face, covered with tears, from the bosom of her infant; "is the loveliest lady that ever the sun shone upon, cold in the grave? Alas, for me! she it was that gave me the roof under which my baby was born; she it was who, when the Southron soldiers slew my father, and drove us from our home in Ayrshire, gave to my old mother, and my then wounded husband, our cottage by the burnside. Ah! well can I spare him now to avenge her murder."
The night being far advanced, Halbert retired, at the invitation of this young woman, to repose on the heather-bed of her husband, who was now absent with Wallace. The rest of the peasantry withdrew to their coverts, while she and some other women whose anxieties would not allow them to sleep, sat at the cavern's mouth watching the slowly moving hours.
The objects of their fond and fervent prayers, Wallace and his little army, were rapidly pursuing their march. It was midnight–all was silent as they hurried through the glen, as they ascended with flying footsteps the steep acclivities that led to the cliffs which overhung the vale of Ellerslie. Wallace must pass along their brow. Beneath was the tomb of his sacrificed Marion! He rushed forward to snatch one look, even of the roof which shrouded her beloved remains.
But in the moment before he mounted the intervening height, a solder in English armor crossed the path, and was seized by his men. One of them would have cut him down, but Wallace turned away the weapon. "Hold, Scot!" cried he, "you are not a Southron, to strike the defenceless. This man has no sword."
The reflection on their enemy, which this plea of mercy contained, reconciled the impetuous Scots to the clemency of their leader. The rescued man joyfully recognising the voice of Wallace, exclaimed, "It is my lord! It is Sir William Wallace that has saved my life a second time!"
"Who are you?" asked Wallace; "that helmet can cover no friend of mine."
"I am your servant Dugald," returned the man, "he whom your brave arm saved from the battle-axe of Arthur Heselrigge."
"I cannot now ask you how you came by that armor; but if you be yet a Scot, throw it off and follow me."
"Not to Ellerslie, my lord," cried he; "it has been plundered and burnt to the ground by the governor of Lanark."
"Then," exclaimed Wallace, striking his breast, "are the remains of my beloved Marion for ever ravished from my eyes? Insatiate monster!"
"He is Scotland's curse," cried the veteran of Largs. "Forward, my lord, in mercy to your country's groans!"
Wallace had now mounted the craig which overlooked Ellerslie. His once happy home had disappeared, and all beneath lay a heap of smoking ashes. He hastened from the sight, and directing the point of his sword with a forceful action towards Lanark, re-echoed with supernatural strength, "Forward!"
With the rapidity of lightning his little host flew over the hills, reached the cliffs which divided them from the town, and leaped down before the outward trench of the castle of Lanark. In a moment Wallace sprang so feeble a barrier; and with a shout of death, in which the tremendous slogen of his men now joined, he rushed upon the guard that held the northern gate.
Here slept the governor. These opponents being slain by the first sweep of the Scottish swords, Wallace hastened onward, winged with two-fold retribution. The noise of battle was behind him; for the shouts of his men had aroused the garrison and drawn its soldiers, half naked, to the spot. He reached the door of the governor. The sentinel who stood there flew before the terrible warrior that presented himself. All the mighty vengeance of Wallace blazed in his face and seemed to surround his figure with a terrible splendor. With one stroke of his foot he drove the door from its hinges, and rushed into the room.
What a sight for the now awakened and guilty Heselrigge! It was the husband of the defenceless woman he had murdered, come in the power of justice, with uplifted arm and vengeance in his eyes! With a terrific scream of despair, and an outcry for the mercy he dared not expect, he fell back into the bed and sought an unavailing shield beneath its folds.
"Marion! Marion!" cried Wallace, as he threw himself towards the bed and buried the sword, yet red with her blood, through the coverlid, deep into the heart of her murderer. A fiend-like yell from the slain Heselrigge, told him his work was done; and drawing out the sword he took the streaming blade in his hand. "Vengeance is satisfied," cried he: "thus, O God! do I henceforth divide self from my heart!" As he spoke he snapped the sword in twain, and throwing away the pieces, put back with his hand the impending weapons of his brave companions, who, having cleared the passage of their assailants, had hurried forward to assist in ridding their country of so detestable a tyrant.
"'Tis done," cried he. As he spoke he drew down the coverlid and discovered the body of the governor weltering in blood. The ghastly countenance, on which the agonies of hell seemed imprinted, glared horrible even in death.
Wallace turned away; but the men exulting in the sight, with a shout of triumph exclaimed, "So fall the enemies of Sir William Wallace!"
"Rather so fall the enemies of Scotland!" cried he: "from this hour Wallace has neither love nor resentment but for her. Heaven has heard me devote myself to work our country's freedom or to die. Who will follow me in so just a cause?"
"All!–with Wallace for ever!"
The new clamor which this resolution excited, intimidated a fresh band of soldiers, who were hastening across the courtyard to seek the enemy in the governor's apartments. But on the noise they hastily retreated, and no exertions of their officers could prevail on them to advance again, or even to appear in sight, when the resolute Scots with Wallace at their head soon afterwards issued from the great gate. The English commanders seeing the panic of their men, and which they were less able to surmount on account of the way to the gate being strewn with their slain comrades, fell back into the shadow of the towers, where by the light of the moon, like men paralyzed, they viewed the departure of their enemies over the trenches.
HE sun was rising from the eastern hills, when the victorious group re-entered the mountain-glen where their families lay. The cheerful sounds of their bugles aroused the sleepers from their caves; and many were the gratulations and embraces which welcomed the warriors to affection and repose.
Wallace, while he threw himself along a bed of purple heath, gathered for him by many a busy female hand, listened with a calmed mind to the fond inquiries of Halbert, who, awakened by the first blast of the horn, had started from his shelter and hastened to hail the safe return of his master. While his faithful followers retired each to the bosom of his rejoicing family, the fugitive chief of Ellerslie remained alone with the old man, and recounted to him the success of his enterprise, and the double injuries he had avenged. "The assassin," continued he, "has paid with his life for his inexpiable crime. He is slain, and with him several of Edward's garrison. My vengeance may be appeased; but what, O Halbert, can bring redress to my widowed heart? All is lost to me: I have now nothing to do with this world, but as I may be the instrument of good to others! The Scottish sword has now been redrawn against our foes; and, with the blessing of Heaven, I swear it shall not be sheathed till Scotland be rid of the tyranny which has slain my happiness! This night my gallant Scots have sworn to accomplish my vow, and death or liberty must be the future fate of Wallace and his friends."
At these words, tears ran down the cheeks of the venerable harper. "Alas! my too brave master," exclaimed he, "what is it you would do? Why rush upon certain destruction? For the sake of her memory, whom you deplore; in pity to the worthy earl of Mar, who will arraign himself as the cause of all these calamities, and of your death, should you fall, retract this desperate vow!"
"No, my good Halbert," returned Wallace, "I am neither desperate nor inefficient; and you, faithful creature, shall have no cause to mourn this night's resolution. Go to Lord Mar, and tell him what are my resolves. I have nothing now that binds me to life but my country; and henceforth she shall be to me as mistress, wife, and child. Would you deprive me of this tie, Halbert? Would you, by persuading me to resign my interest in her, devote me to a hermit's seclusion amongst these rocks? for I will never again appear in the tracks of men if it be not as the defender of her rights."
"But where, my master, shall we find you, should the earl choose to join you with his followers?"
"In this wilderness, whence I shall not remove rashly. My purpose is to save my countrymen, not to sacrifice them in needless dangers."
Halbert, oppressed with sorrow at the images his foreboding heart drew of the direful scenes in which his beloved master had pledged himself to become the leader, bowed his head with submission, and, leaving Wallace to his rest, retired to the mouth of the cavern to weep alone.
It was noon before the chief awaked from the death-like sleep into which kind nature had plunged his long-harassed senses. He opened his eyes languidly, and when the sight of his rocky apartment forced on him the recollection of all his miseries, he uttered a deep groan. That sad sound, so different from the jocund voice with which Wallace used to issue from his rest, struck on the heart of Halbert: he drew near his master to receive his last commands for Bothwell. "On my knees," added he, "will I implore the earl to send you succors."
"He needs not prayers for that," returned Wallace; "but depart, dear, worthy Halbert; it will comfort me to know you are in safety; and whithersoever you go, you carry my thanks and blessings with you."
Old age opens the fountains of tears; Halbert's flowed profusely, and bathed his master's hand. Could Wallace have wept, it would have been then; but that gentle emollient of grief was denied to him, and, with a voice of assumed cheerfulness, he renewed his efforts to encourage his desponding servant. Half persuaded that a Superior Being did indeed call his beloved master to some extraordinary exertions for Scotland, Halbert bade him an anxious farewell, and then withdrew, to commit him to the fidelity of the companions of his destiny. A few of them led the old man on his way, as far as the western declivity of the hills, and then, bidding him good speed, he took the remainder of his journey alone.
After traversing many a weary mile, between Cartlane Craigs and Bothwell Castle, he reached the valley in which that fortress stands, and calling to the warder at his gates, that he came from Sir William Wallace, was immediately admitted, and conducted into the castle.
Halbert was led by a servant into a spacious chamber, where the earl lay upon a couch. A lady, richly habited, and in the bloom of life, sat at his head. Another, much younger, and of resplendent beauty, knelt at his feet, with a salver of medicinal cordials in her hand. The Lady Marion's loveliness had been that of a soft moonlight evening; but the face which now turned upon Halbert as he entered, was "full of light, and splendor, and joy;" and the old man's eyes, even though dimmed in tears, were dazzled. A young man stood near her. On the entrance of Halbert, whom the earl instantly recognised, he raised himself on his arm, and welcomed him. The young lady rose, and the young man stepped eagerly forward.
The earl inquired anxiously for Sir William Wallace, and asked if he might expect him soon at Bothwell.
"He cannot yet come, my lord," replied Halbert; "hard is the task he has laid upon his valiant head; but he is avenged! He has slain the governor of Lanark." A faint exclamation broke from the lips of the young lady.
"How?" demanded the earl.
Halbert now gave a particular account of the anguish of Wallace, when he was told of the sanguinary events which had taken place at Ellerslie. As the honest harper described, in his own ardent language, the devoted zeal with which the shepherds on the heights took up arms to avenge the wrong done to their chief, the countenance of the young lady, and of the youth, glowed through tears; they looked on each other, and Halbert proceeded:–
"When my dear master and his valiant troop were pursuing their way to Lanark, he was met by Dugald, the wounded man who had rushed into the room to apprise us of the advance of the English forces. During the confusion of that horrible night, and in the midst of the contention, in spite of his feebleness he crept away, and concealed himself from the soldiers amongst the bushes of the glen. When all was over, he came from his hiding-place; and finding the English soldier's helmet and cloak, poor Dugald, still fearful of falling in with any straggling party of Heselrigge's, disguised himself in those Southron clothes. Exhausted with hunger, he was venturing towards the house in search of food, when the sight of armed men in the hall made him hastily retreat into his former place of refuge. His alarm was soon increased by a redoubled noise from the house; oaths and horrid bursts of merriment seemed to have turned that once abode of honor and of loveliness into the clamorous haunts of ribaldry and rapine. In the midst of the uproar, he was surprised by seeing flames issue from the windows. Soldiers poured from the doors with shouts of triumph: some carried off the booty, and others watched by the fire till the interior of the building was consumed, and the rest sunk a heap of smoking ruins.
"The work completed, these horrid ministers of devastation left the vale to its own solitude. Dugald, after waiting a long time to ascertain they were quite gone, crawled from the bushes, and, ascending the cliffs, he was speeding to the mountains, when, encountering our armed shepherds, they mistook him for an English soldier, and seized him. The chief of ruined Ellerslie recognised his servant; and, with redoubled indignation, his followers heard the history of the mouldering ashes before them."
"Brave, persecuted Wallace!" exclaimed the earl; "how dearly was my life purchased! But proceed, Halbert; tell me that he returned safe from Lanark."
Halbert now recounted the dreadful scenes which took place in that town; and that when the governor fell, Wallace made a vow never to mingle with the world again till Scotland should be free.
"Alas!" cried the earl, "what miracle is to effect that? Surely he will not bury those noble qualities, that prime of manhood, within the gloom of a cloister!"
"No, my lord; he has retired to the fastnesses of Cartlane Craigs."
"Why," resumed Mar, "why did he not rather fly to me? This castle is strong; and while one stone of it remains upon another, not all the hosts of England should take him hence."
"It was not your friendship he doubted," returned the old man; "love for his country compels him to reject all comfort in which she does not share. His last words to me were these: 'I have nothing now to do but to assert the liberties of Scotland, and to rid her of her enemies. Go to Lord Mar; take this lock of my hair, stained with the blood of my wife. It is all, most likely, he will ever again see of William Wallace. Should I fall, tell him to look on that, and in my wrongs read the future miseries of Scotland; and remember that God armeth the patriot!'"
Tears dropped so fast from the young lady's eyes, she was obliged to walk to a window, to restrain a more violent burst of grief.
"O! my uncle," cried the youth, "surely the freedom of Scotland is possible. I feel in my soul, that the words of the brave Wallace are prophetic."
The earl held the lock of hair in his hands; he regarded it, lost in meditation.
"'God armeth the patriot!'" He paused again, his before pallid cheek taking a thousand animated hues; then raising the sacred present to his lips, "Yes," cried he, "thy vow shall be performed; and while Donald Mar has an arm to wield a sword, or a man to follow to the field, thou shalt command both him and them!"
"But not as you are, my lord!" cried the elder lady; "your wounds are yet unhealed; your fever is still raging! Would it not be madness to expose your safety at such a crisis?"
"I shall not take arms myself," answered he, "till I can bear them to effect; meanwhile of all my clan; and of my friends, that I can raise to guard the life of my deliverer and to promote the cause, must be summoned. This lock shall be my pennon; and what Scotsman will look on that, and shrink from his colors! Here, Helen, my child," cried he, addressing the young lady, "before to-morrow's dawn, have this hair wrought into my banner. It will be a patriot's standard; and let his own irresistible words be the motto–God armeth me."
Helen advanced with awestruck trepidation. Having been told by the earl of the generous valor of Wallace, and of the cruel death of his lady, she had conceived a gratitude and a pity deeper than language could express, for the man who had lost so much by succoring one so dear to her. She took the lock, waving in yellow light upon her hands, and, trembling with emotion, was leaving the room, when she heard her cousin throw himself on his knees.
"I beseech you, my honored uncle," cried he, "if you have love for me, or value for my future fame, allow me to be the bearer of yon banner to Sir William Wallace."
Helen stopped at the threshold to hear the reply.
"You could not, my dear nephew, " returned the earl, "have asked me any favor I could grant with so much joy. To-morrow I will collect the peasantry of Bothwell, and with those, and my own followers, you shall join Wallace the same night."
Ignorant of the horrors of war, and only alive to the glory of the present cause, Helen sympathized in the ardor of her cousin, and with a thrill of sad delight hurried to her apartment, to commence her task.
Far different were the sentiments of the young countess, her stepmother. As soon as Lord Mar had let this declaration escape his lips, alarmed at the effect so much agitation might have on his enfeebled constitution, and fearful of the perilous cause he ventured thus openly to espouse, she desired his nephew to take the now comforted Halbert (who was pouring forth his gratitude to the earl for the promptitude of his orders), and see that he was attended with hospitality.
When the room was left to the earl and herself, she ventured to remonstrate with him upon the facility with which he had become a party in so treasonable a matter. "Consider, my lord," continued she, "that Scotland is now entirely in the power of the English monarch. His garrisons occupy our towns, his creatures hold every place of trust in the kingdom!"
"And is such a list of oppressions, my dear lady, to be an argument for longer bearing them? Had I, and other Scottish nobles, dared to resist this overwhelming power after the battle of Dunbar, had we, instead of kissing the sword that robbed us of our liberties, kept our own unsheathed within the bulwarks of our mountains, Scotland might now be free; I should not have been insulted by our English tyrants in the streets of Lanark; and, to save my life William Wallace would not now be mourning his murdered wife, and without a home to shelter him!"
Lady Mar paused at this observation, but resumed: "That may be true. But the die is cast; Scotland is lost for ever; and, by your attempting to assist your friend in this rash essay to recover it, you will only lose yourself also, without preserving him. The project is wild and needless. What would you have? Now that the contention between the two kings is past; now that Baliol has surrendered his crown to England, is not Scotland at peace?"
"A bloody peace, Joanna," answered the earl; "witness these wounds. An usurper's peace is more destructive than his open hostilities; plunder and assassination are its concomitants. I have now seen and felt enough of Edward's jurisdiction. It is time I should awake, and, like Wallace, determine to die for Scotland, or avenge her."
Lady Mar wept. "Cruel Donald! is this the reward of all my love and duty? You tear yourself from me, you consign your estates to sequestration, you rob your children of their name; nay, by your infectious example, you stimulate our brother Bothwell's son to head the band that is to join this madman, Wallace!"
"Hold, Joanna!" cried the earl; "what is it I hear? You call the hero who, in saving your husband's life, reduced himself to these cruel extremities, a madman! Was he mad because he prevented the countess of Mar from being a widow? Was he mad because he prevented her children from being fatherless?"
The countess, overcome by this cutting reproach, threw herself upon her husband's neck. "Alas! my lord," cried she, "all is madness to me that would plunge you into danger. Think of your own safety; of my innocent twins now in their cradle, should you fall. Think of our brother's feelings when you send his only son to join one he, perhaps, will call a rebel!"
"If Earl Bothwell considered himself a vassal of Edward's, he would not now be with Lord Loch-awe. From the moment that gallant Highlander retired to Argyleshire, the King of England regarded his adherents with suspicion. Bothwell's present visit to Loch-awe, you see, is sufficient to sanction the plunder of this castle by the peaceful government you approve You saw the opening of these proceedings! And had they come to their dreadful issue, where, my dear Joanna, would now be your home, your husband, your children? It was the arm of the brave chief of Ellerslie which saved them from destruction."
Lady Mar shuddered. "I admit the truth of what you say. But, oh! is it not hard to put my all to the hazard; to see the bloody field on one side of my beloved Donald, and the mortal scaffold on the other?"
"Hush!" cried the earl, "it is justice that beckons me, and victory will receive me to her arms. Let, oh Power above!" exclaimed he in the fervor of enthusiasm, "let the victorious field for Scotland be Donald Mar's grave, rather than doom him to live a witness of her miseries!"
"I cannot stay to hear you!" answered the countess. "I must invoke the Virgin to give me courage to be a patriot's wife; at present, your words are daggers to me."
In uttering this she hastily withdrew, and left the earl to muse on the past–to concert plans for the portentous future.
EANWHILE, the Lady Helen had retired to her own apartments. Lord Mar's banner being brought to her from the armory, she sat down to weave into its silken texture the amber locks of the Scottish chief. Admiring their softness and beauty, while her needle flew, she pictured to herself the fine countenance they had once adorned.
The duller extremities of the hair, which a sadder liquid than that which now dropped from her eyes had rendered stiff and difficult to entwine with the warp of the silk, seemed to adhere to her fingers. Helen almost shrank from the touch. "Unhappy lady!" sighed she to herself; "what a pang must have rent her heart, when the stroke of so cruel a death tore her from such a husband! and how must he have loved her, when for her sake he thus forswears all future joys but those which camps and victories may yield! Ah! what would I give to be my cousin Murray, to bear this pennon at his side! What would I give to reconcile so admirable a being to happiness again–to weep his griefs, or smile him into comfort! To be that man's friend, would be a higher honor than to be Edward's queen."
Her heart was thus discoursing with itself when a page opened the door, from her cousin, who begged admittance. She had just fastened the flowing charge into its azure field, and while embroidering the motto, gladly assented.
"You know not, my good old man," said the gallant Murray to Halbert, as he conducted him across the galleries, "what a noble mind is contained in that lovely young creature. I was brought up with her, and to the sweet contagion of her taste do I owe that love of true glory which carries me to the side of Sir William Wallace. The virtuous, only, can awaken any interest in her heart; and in these degenerate days long might have been its sleep had not the history which my uncle recounted of your brave master aroused her attention, and filled her with an admiration equal to my own. I know she rejoices in my present destination. And to prevent her hearing from your own lips all you have now told me of the mild as well as heroic virtues of my intended commander–all you have said of the heroism of his wife–would be depriving her of a mournful pleasure, only to be appreciated by a heart such as hers."
The gray-haired bard of Ellerslie, who had ever received the dearest rewards of his songs in the smiles of its mistress, did not require persuasion to appear before the gentle lady of Mar, or to recite in her ears the story of departed loveliness, fairer than poet ever feigned.
Helen rose as he and her cousin appeared. Murray approved the execution of her work; and Halbert, with a full heart, took the pennon in his hand. "Ah! little did my dear lady think," exclaimed he, "that one of these loved locks would ever be suspended on a staff to lead men to battle! What changes have a few days made! She, the gentlest of women, laid in a bloody grave; and he, the most benevolent of human beings, wielding an exterminating sword!"
'You speak of her grave, venerable man," inquired Helen: "had you then an opportunity of performing the rites of sepulture to her remains!"
"No, madam," replied he; "after the worthy English soldier, now in this castle, assisted me to place her precious body in my lord's oratory, I had no opportunity of returning to give her a more holy grave."
"Alas!" cried Helen; "then her sacred relics have been consumed in the burning house!"
"I hope not," rejoined Halbert; "the chapel I speak of is at some distance from the main building. It was excavated in the rock by Sir Ronald Crawford, who gave the name of Ellerslie to this estate, in compliment to Sir William's place of birth in Renfrewshire, and bestowed it on the bridal pair. Since then, the Ellerslie of Clydesdale has been as dear to my master as that of the Carth; and well it might be, for it was not only the home of all his wedded joys, but under its roof his mother, the Lady Margaret Crawford, drew her first breath. Ah! woe is me! that happy house is now, like herself, reduced to cold, cold ashes! She married Sir Malcolm Wallace, and he is gone too! Both the parents of my honored master died in the bloom of their lives; and a grievous task will it be to whoever is to tell the good Sir Ronald, that the last sweet flower of Ellerslie is now cut down! that the noblest branch of his own stem is torn from the soil to which he had transplanted it, and cast far away into the waste wilderness!" *
The tears of the venerable harper bore testimony to his inward resolve, that this messenger should not be himself. Lady Helen, who had fallen into a reverie during the latter part of his speech, now spoke, and with something of eagerness.
"Then we may hope," rejoined she, "that the oratory has not only escaped the flames, but perhaps the access of the English soldiers? Would it not comfort your lord to have that sweet victim entombed according to the rites of the church?"
"Surely, my lady; but how can that be done? He thinks her remains were lost in the conflagration of Ellerslie; and for fear of precipitating him into the new dangers which might have menaced him had he sought to bring away her body, I did not disprove his mistake."
"But her body shall be brought away," rejoined Lady Helen; "it shall have holy burial."
"To effect this, command my services," exclaimed Murray.
Helen thanked him for an assistance which would render the completion of her design easy. The English soldier as guide, and a troop from Bothwell, must accompany him.
"Alas! my young lord," interposed Halbert, "suppose you should meet some of the English still loitering there!"
"And what of that, my honest Halbert, would not I and my trusty band make them clear the way? Is it not to give comfort to the deliverer of my uncle, that I seek the glen? and shall anything in mortal shape make Andrew Murray turn his back? No, Halbert, I was not born on Saint Andrew's day for nought; and by his bright cross I swear, either to lay Lady Wallace in the tomb of my ancestors, or to leave my bones to blanch on the grave of hers."
Helen loved the resolution of her cousin; and believing that the now ravaged Ellerslie had no attractions to hold marauders amongst its ruins, she dismissed Lord Andrew to make his preparations, and turned herself to prefer her suit accordingly to her father.
Ere Halbert withdrew, he respectfully put her hand to his lips. "Good night," continued she; "ere you see me again, I trust the earthly part of the angel now in paradise, will be safe within these towers." He poured a thousand blessings on her head, and almost thought that he saw in her beautiful form one of heaven's inhabitants, sent to bear away his dear mistress to her divine abode.
On entering her father's apartment, Lady Helen found him alone. She repeated to him the substance of her conversation with Wallace's faithful servant; "and my wish is," continued she, "to have the murdered lady's remains entombed in the cemetery of this castle."
The earl approved her request, with expressions of satisfaction at the filial affection which so lively a gratitude to his preserver evinced.
"May I then, my dear father," returned she, "have your permission to pay our debt of gratitude to Sir William Wallace, to the utmost of our power?"
"You are at liberty, my noble child, to do as you please. My vassals, my coffers, are all at your command."
Helen kissed his hand. "May I have what I please from the Bothwell armory?"
"Command even there," said the earl; "your uncle Bothwell is too true a Scot to grudge a sword in so pious a cause."
Helen threw her arms about her father's neck, thanking him tenderly, and with a beating heart retired to prosecute her plans. Murray, who met her in the anteroom, informed her that fifty men, the sturdiest in the glen, awaited her orders; while she, telling her cousin of the earl's approval, took the sacred banner in her hand, and followed him to the gallery in the hall.
The moment she appeared, a shout of joy bade her welcome. Murray waved his hand in token of silence; while she, smiling with the benignity that spoke her angel errand, spoke with agitation: "My brave friends!" said she, "I thank you for the ardor with which, by this night's enterprise, you assist me to pay, in part, the everlasting tribute due to the man who preserved to me the blessing of a father."
"And to us, noble lady," cried they, "the most generous of chiefs!"
"With that spirit, then," returned she, "I address ye with greater confidence. Who amongst you will shrink from following this standard to the field for Scotland's honor? Who will refuse to make himself the especial guardian of the life of Sir William Wallace? and who, in the moment of peril, will not stand by him to the last?"
"None are here," cried a young man, advancing before his fellows, "who would not gladly die in his defence."
"We swear it," burst from every lip at once.
She bowed her head, and said, "Return from Ellerslie to-morrow, with the bier of its sainted mistress. I will then bestow upon every man in this band, a war-bonnet plumed with my colors, and this banner shall then lead you to the side of Sir William Wallace. In the shock of battle look at its golden ensign, and remember that God not only armeth the patriot's hand, but shieldeth his heart. In this faith, be ye the bucklers which Heaven sends to guard the life of Wallace; and so honored, exult in your station, and expect the future gratitude of Scotland."
"Wallace and Lady Helen! to death or liberty!" was the animated response to this exhortation; and smiling, and crossing her hands over her bosom, in token of thanks to them and to Heaven, she retired in the midst of their acclamations. Murray, ready armed for his expedition, met her at the door. Restored to his usual vivacity by the spirit-moving emotions which the present scene awakened in his heart, he forgot the horrors which had aroused his zeal, in the glory of some anticipated victory; and giving her a gay salutation, led her back to her apartments, where the English soldier awaited her commands. Lady Helen, with a gentle grace, commended his noble resentment of Heselrigge's violence.
"Lands in Mar shall be yours," added she, "or a post of honor in the little army the earl is now going to raise. Speak but the word, and you shall find, worthy Englishman, that neither a Scotchman, nor his daughter, know what it is to be ungrateful."
The blood mounted into the soldier's cheek. "I thank you, sweetest lady, for this generous offer; but, as I am an Englishman, I dare not accept it. My arms are due to my own country; and whether I am tied to it by lands and possessions, or have nought but my English blood, and my oath to my king to bind me, still I should be equally unwarranted in breaking those bonds. I left Heselrigge because he dishonored my country; and for me to forswear her, would be to make myself infamous. Hence, all I ask is, that after I have this night obeyed your gracious commands, in leading your men to Ellerslie, the earl of Mar will allow me instantly to depart for the nearest port."
Lady Helen replied, that she revered his sentiments too sincerely to insult them by any persuasions to the contrary; and taking a diamond clasp from her bosom, she put it into his hand: "Wear that in remembrance of your virtue, and of Helen Mar's gratitude."
The man kissed it respectfully, and bowing, swore to preserve so distinguishing a gift to the latest hour of his existence.
Helen retired to her chamber to finish her task; and Murray, bidding her good night, repaired to the earl's apartments, to take his final orders before he and his troop set out for the ruins of Ellerslie.
* The Ellerslie in Renfrewshire here referred to, and which was the birthplace of Sir William Wallace, and the hereditary property of his father, Sir Malcolm Wallace, was situated in the abbey parish of Paisley, three miles west of the town of Paisley, and nine from Glasgow. A large and old oak, still called Wallace's Oak, stands close to the road from Paisley to Beith; and within a short distance from it once stood the manor of Ellerslie. This venerable name is now corrupted into Elderslie, and the estate has become the property of Archibald Spiers, Esq., M. P. for Renfrewshire. For this topographical account, I am indebted to a Renfrewshire gentleman.–(1809.)
IGHT having passed over the sleepless heads of the inhabitants of Bothwell Castle, as soon as the sun arose, the earl of Mar was carried from his chamber and laid on a couch in the state apartment. His lady had not yet left the room of his daughter, by whose side she had lain the whole night, in hopes of infecting her with the fears which possessed herself.
Helen replied that she could see no reason for such direful apprehensions, if her father, instead of joining Wallace in person, would, when he had sent him succors, retire with his family into the Highlands, and there await the issue of the contest. "It is too late to retreat, dear madam," continued she; "the first blow against the public enemy was struck in defence of Lord Mar: and would you have my father act so base a part, as to abandon his preserver to the wrath such generous assistance has provoked?"
"Alas, my child !" answered the countess, "what great service will he have done to me, or to your father, if he deliver him from one danger, only to plunge him into another? Edward's power in this country is too great to be resisted now. Have not most of our barons sworn fealty to him? and are not the potent families of the Cummin, the Soulis, and the March, all in his interest? You may, perhaps, say, that most of these are my relations, and that I may turn them which way I will; but if I have no influence with a husband, it would be madness to expect it over more distant kindred. How, then, with such a host against him, can your infatuated father venture, without despair, to support the man who breaks the peace with England?"
"Who can despair, honored lady," returned Helen, "in so just a cause? Let us rather believe with our good King David, that 'Honor must hope always; for no real evil can befall the virtuous, either in this world or in the next!' Were I a man, the justice that leads on the brave Wallace would nerve my arm with the strength of a host. Besides, look at our country: God's gift of freedom is stamped upon it. Our mountains are his seal. Plains are the proper territories of tyranny: there the armies of a usurper may extend themselves with ease; leaving no corner unoccupied in which patriotism might shelter or treason hide. But mountains, glens, morasses, lakes, set bounds to conquest; and amidst these stands the impregnable seat of liberty. To such a fortress, to the deep defiles of Loch Katrine, or to the cloud-curtained heights of Corryarraick, I would have my father retire. In safety he may there watch the footsteps of our mountain-goddess, till, led by her immortal champion, she plants her standard again upon the hills of Scotland."
The complexion of the animated Helen shone with a radiant glow. Her heart panted with a foretaste of the delight she would feel when all her generous wishes should be fulfilled; and pressing the now completed banner to her breast, with an enthusiasm she believed prophetic, her lips moved, though her voice did not utter the inexpressible rapture of her heart.
Lady Mar looked at her. "It is well, romantic girl, that you are of my own powerless sex: had it been otherwise, your rash-headed disobedience might have made me rue the day I became your father's wife."
"Sex," returned Helen, mildly, "could not have altered my sense of duty. Whether man or woman, I would obey you in all things consistent with my duty to a higher power; but when that commands, then, by the ordinance of Heaven, 'we must leave father and mother, and cleave unto it.'"
"And what, O foolish Helen ! do you call a higher duty than that of a child to a parent, or a husband to his wife?"
"Duty of any kind," respectfully answered the young daughter of Mar, "cannot be transgressed with innocence. Nor would it be any relinquishing of duty to you, should my father leave you to take up arms in the assertion of his country's rights. Her rights are your safety; and therefore, in defending them, a husband or a son best shows his sense of domestic, as well as of public duty."
"Who taught you this sophistry, Helen? Not your heart, for it would start at the idea of your father's blood."
Helen turned pale. "Perhaps, madam, had not the preservation of my father's blood occasioned such malignity from the English, that nothing but an armed force can deliver his preserver, I, too, might be content to see Scotland in slavery. But now, to wish my father to shrink behind the excuse of far-strained family duties, and to abandon Sir William Wallace to the bloodhounds who hunt his life, would be to devote the name of Mar to infamy, and deservedly bring a curse upon his offspring."
"Then it is to preserve Sir William Wallace you are thus anxious. Your spirit of freedom is now disallowed, and all this mighty gathering is for him. My husband, his vassals, your cousin, and, in short, the sequestration of the estates of Mar and Bothwell, are all to be put to the hazard on account of a frantic outlaw, to whom, since the loss of his wife, I should suppose, death would be preferable to any gratitude we can pay him."
Lady Helen, at this ungrateful language inwardly thanked Heaven that she inherited no part of the blood which animated so unfeeling a heart. "That he is an outlaw, Lady Mar, springs from us. That death is the preferable comforter of his sorrows, also, he owes to us; for was it not for my father's sake that his wife fell, and that he himself was driven into the wilds? I do not, then, blush for making his preservation my first prayer; and that he may achieve the freedom of Scotland, is my second."
"We shall see whose prayers will be answered first," returned Lady Mar, rising coldly from her seat. "My saints are perhaps nearer than yours. and before the close of this day you will have reason to repent such extravagant opinions. I do not understand them."
"Till now, you never disapproved them."
"I allowed them in your infancy," replied the countess, "because I thought they went no further than a minstrel's song; but since they are become so dangerous, I rue the hour in which I complied with the entreaties of Sir Richard Maitland, and permitted you and your sister to remain at Thirlestane, to imbibe these romantic ideas from the wizard of Ercildown. * Had not Sir Richard been your own mother's father, I would not have been so easily prevailed on; and thus am I rewarded for my indulgence."
"I hope, honored madam," said Helen, still wishing to soften the displeasure of her stepmother, "I hope you will never be ill-rewarded for that indulgence, either by my grandfather, my sister, or myself. Isabella, in the quiet of Thirlestane, has no chance of giving you the offence that I do; and I am forced to offend you, because I cannot disobey my conscience." A tear stood in the eye of Lady Helen. "Cannot you, dear Lady Mar," continued she, forcing a smile, "pardon the daughter of your early friend, my mother, who loved you as a sister? Cannot you forgive her Helen for revering justice even more than your favor?"
More influenced by the sweet humility of her daughter-in-law than by the ingenuous eloquence with which she maintained her sentiments, or with the appeal to the memory of the first Lady Mar, the countess relaxed the frigid air she had assumed; and kissing her, with many renewed injunctions to bless the hand that might put a final stop to so ruinous an enthusiasm in her family, she quitted the room.
As soon as Helen was alone, she forgot the narrow-minded arguments of the countess; and calling to recollection the generous permission with which her father had endowed her the night before, she wrapped herself in her mantle, and, attended by her page, proceeded to the armory. The armorer was already there, having just given out arms for three hundred men, who, by the earl's orders, were to assemble by noon on Bothwell Moor.
Helen told the man she came for the best suit of armor in his custody–"one of the most excellent proof."
He drew from an oaken chest a coat of black mail, studded with gold. Helen admired its strength and beauty. "It is the richest in all Scotland," answered he; "and was worn by our great Canmore in all his victories."
"Then it is worthy its destination. Bring it, with its helmet and sword, to my apartment."
The armorer took it up; and, accompanied by the page carrying the lighter parts, followed her into the western tower.
When Helen was again alone, it being yet very early in the morning, she employed herself in pluming the Basque, and forming the scarf she meant should adorn her present. Thus time flew, till the sand-glass told her it was the eighth hour. But ere she had finished her task, she was roused from the profound stillness in which that part of the castle lay, by the doleful lament of the troop returning from Ellerslie.
She dropped the half-formed scarf from her hand; and listened without daring to draw her breath, to the deep-toned lamentations. She thought that she had never before heard the dirge of her country so piercing, so thrillingly awful. Her head fell on the armor and scarf. "Sweet lady!" sighed she to herself, "who is it that dares thus invade thy duties! But my gratitude–gratitude to thy once-loved lord, will not offend thy pure spirit!" Again the mournful wailings rose on the air; and with a convulsion of feelings she could not restrain, she threw herself on her knees and leaning her head on the newly adorned helmet, wept profusely. Murray entered the room unobserved. "Helen! my dear cousin!' cried he. She started, and rising, apologized for her tears by owning the truth. He now told her, that the body of the deceased lady was deposited in the chapel of the castle; and that the priests from the adjacent priory only awaited her presence to consign it with the church's rites, to its tomb.
Helen retired for a few minutes to recover herself; and then re-entering, covered with a black veil, was led by her cousin to the awful scene.
The bier lay before the altar. The prior of Saint Fillan, in his holy vestments, stood at its head; a band of monks were ranged on each side. The maids of Lady Helen, in mourning garments, met their mistress at the portal. They had wrapped the beautiful corpse in the shroud prepared for it; and now having laid it, strewed with flowers, upon the bier, they advanced to their trembling lady, expecting her to approve their services. Helen drew near–she bowed to the priests. One of the women put her hand on the pall, to uncover the once lovely face of the murdered Marion. Lady Helen hastily resisted the woman's motion, by laying her hand also upon the pall. The chill of death struck through the velvet to her touch. She turned pale; and waving her hand to the prior to begin, the bier was lowered by the priests into the tomb beneath. As it descended, Helen sunk upon her knees, and the anthem for departed souls was raised. The pealing notes, as they rose and swelled, seemed to bear up the spirit of the sainted Marion to its native heaven; and the tears which now flowed from the eyes of Helen, as they mingled with her pious aspirations, seemed the balm of paradise descending upon her soul.
When all was over, the venerable Halbert, who had concealed his overwhelming sorrow behind a pillar, threw himself on the cold stone which now closed the last chamber of his mistress. With faint cries, he gave way to the woe that shook his aged bosom, and called on death to lay him low with her. The women of Lady Helen again chanted forth their melancholy wailings for the dead; and unable longer to bear the scene, she grasped the arm of her cousin, and with difficulty walked from the chapel.
* Few personages are so renowned in tradition as Thomas of Ercildown, usually called The Rhymer. He was a poet and a sage, and believed by his contemporaries to be a prophet. He was born at Ercildown, a village on the Leeder (or Lauder), where the ruins of his paternal castle, called Learmont Tower, still remain.–(1809).
AVING rewarded his trusty followers with their promised war-bonnets from the hand of Helen, and despatched them onward to the foot of Cartlane craigs, to await his arrival with the larger levy, Murray proceeded to the apartment of Lord Mar, to inform him how far he had executed his commands, and to learn his future orders. He found the veteran earl surrounded by arms and armed men; fifty brave Scots, who were to lead the three hundred then on Bothwell Moor, were receiving their spears and swords, and other weapons, from the hands of their lord.
"Bear these stoutly, my gallant countrymen," cried he, "and remember, that although the dragon * of England has burnt up your harvests, and laid our homes in ashes, there is yet a lion in Scotland to wither his power, and glut you with his spoil!"
The interest of the scene, and the clatter of the arms he was dispensing, prevented anybody present hearing any sound of what was taking place beyond the room. But the earl had hardly uttered these words, when the double-doors of the apartment were abruptly opened, and all eyes were blasted by the sudden sight of Lord Soulis, † and a man in splendid English armor, with a train of Southron soldiers, following the recreant Scot.
The earl started from his couch. "Lord Soulis! what is the occasion of this unapprised visit ?"
"The ensign of the liege lord of Scotland is my warrant!" replied he: "you are my prisoner; and in the name of King Edward of England, I take possession of this castle."
"Never !" cried the earl, "while there is a man's arm within it."
"Man and woman," returned Lord Soulis, "must surrender to Edward. Three thousand English have seized three hundred of your insurgents, on Bothwell Moor. The castle is surrounded, and resistance impossible. Throw down your arms!" cried he, turning to the clansmen, who thronged round their chief; "or be hanged for rebellion against your lawful sovereign!"
"Our lawful sovereign!" returned a young man, who stood near him, "must be the enemy of Edward; and to none else will we yield our arms!"
"Traitor!" cried the English commander, while with a sudden and dreadful stroke of his battle-axe, he laid the body of the generous Scot a headless corpse at his feet. A direful cry proceeded from his enraged comrades. Every sword was drawn; and before the bewildered and soul-struck earl could utter a word, the Furies blew their most horrible blast through the chamber; and the half-frantic Mar beheld his brave Scots at one moment victorious, and in the next the floor strewed with their dead bodies. A new succession of blood-hounds had rushed in at every door; and before the exterminating sword was allowed to rest, the whole of his faithful troops lay around him, wounded and dying. Several had fallen across his body, having warded with their lives the strokes they believed levelled at his. In vain his voice had called upon his men to surrender–in vain he had implored the iron-hearted Soulis, and his coadjutor Aymer de Valence, to stop the havoc of death.
All now lay in blood; and the heat of the room, thronged by the victors, became so intolerable that de Valence, for his own sake, ordered the earl to be removed into another apartment.
Meanwhile, unconscious of these events, Helen had lain down on her bed, to seek a few minutes' repose; and having watched the whole of the preceding night, was sunk into a profound sleep.
Murray, who was present at the abrupt entrance of the enemy, no sooner heard them declare that the castle was surrounded by a comparatively large army, than he foresaw all would be lost. On the instant, and before the dreadful signal of carnage was given in the fall of the young Scot, he slid behind the canopy of his uncle's couch; and lifting the arras, by a back door which led to some private rooms, hastily made his way to the chamber of his cousin. As he hurried along, he heard a fearful shout. He paused for a moment, but thinking it best, whatever might have happened, to ensure the safety of Helen, he flew onward, and entered her room. She lay upon the bed in a deep sleep. "Awake! Helen!" he cried; "for your life awake!"
She opened her eyes; but, without allowing her time to speak, he hastily added, "The castle is full of armed men, led hither by the English commander Aymer de Valence, and the execrable Soulis. Unless you fly through the vaulted passage, you will be their prisoner."
Helen gazed at him in terror. "Where is my father ? Leave him I cannot."
"Fly, in pity to your father! Oh, do not hesitate! What will be his anguish, should you fall into the hands of the furious man whose love you have rejected; when it will no longer be in the power of a parent to preserve your person from the outrages of his eager and avengeful passion! If you had seen Soulis's threatening eyes–" He was interrupted by a clamor in the opposite gallery, and the shrieks of women. Helen grasped his arm. "Alas, my poor damsels! I will go with you, whither you will, to be far from him."
As Murray threw his arm about her waist, to impel her failing steps, his eyes fell on the banner and the suit of armor.
"All else must be left," exclaimed he, seizing the banner; and hurrying Helen forward, he hastened with her down the stairs which led from the western watch-tower to the vaults beneath the castle. On entering the first cellar, to which a dim light was admitted through a small grating near the top, he looked round for the archway that contained the avenue of their release. Having descried it, and raised one of the large flags which paved the floor, he assisted his affrighted cousin down a short flight of steps, into the secret passage. "This," whispered he, "will carry us in a direct line to the cell of the prior of St. Fillan."
"But what will become of my father, and Lady Mar! This flight, while they are in danger! oh! I fear to complete it!"
"Rather fear the libertine Soulis," returned Murray; "he can only make them prisoners; and even that injury shall be of short duration. I will soon join the brave Wallace; and then, my sweet cousin, liberty, and a happy meeting!"
"Alas, his venerable harper," cried she, suddenly remembering Halbert; "should he be discovered to have belonged to Wallace, he, too, will be massacred by these merciless men."
Murray stopped. "Have you courage to remain in this darkness alone? If so, I will seek him, and he shall accompany us."
Helen had courage for anything but the dangers Murray might encounter by returning into the castle; but the generous youth had entered too fully into her apprehensions concerning the old man to be withheld. "Should I be delayed in coming back," said he, recollecting the possibility of himself being attacked and slain, "go forward to the end of this passage; it will lead you to a flight of stairs; ascend them; and by drawing the bolt of a door, you will find yourself at once in the prior's cell."
"Talk not of delay," replied Helen; "return quickly, and I will await you at the entrance of the passage." So saying, she swiftly retraced with him her steps to the bottom of the stone stairs by which they had descended. He raised the flag, sprung out of the aperture, and closing it down, left her in solitude and darkness.
Murray passed through the first cellar, and was proceeding to the second (among the catacombs of which lay the concealed entrance to the private stairs), when he saw the great gates of the cellar open, and a large party of English soldiers enter. They were conducted by the butler of the castle, who seemed to perform his office very unwillingly, while they crowded in, thirsty and riotous.
Aware how unequal his single arm would be to contend with such numbers, Murray, at the first glance of these plunderers, retreated behind a heap of casks in a remote corner. While the trembling butler was loading a dozen of the men with flasks for the refreshment of their masters above, the rest were helping themselves from the adjacent catacombs. Some left the cellars with their booty, and others remained to drink it on the spot. Glad to escape the insults of the soldiers, who lay wallowing in the wine, Bothwell's old servant quitted the cellar with the last company which bore flagons to their comrades above.
Murray listened anxiously, in hopes of hearing from his garrulous neighbors some intimation of the fate of his uncle and aunt. He harkened in vain, for nothing was uttered by these intoxicated banditti, but loud boastings of the number each had slain in the earl's apartment; execrations against the Scots for their obstinate resistance; and a thousand sanguinary wishes, that the nation had but one neck, to strike off at a blow
How often, during this conversation, was Murray tempted to rush out amongst them, and seize a desperate revenge! But the thought of his poor cousin, now awaiting his return, and perhaps already suffering dreadful alarms from such extraordinary uproar, restrained him; and unable to move from his hiding-place without precipitating himself into instant death, he remained nearly an hour in the most painful anxiety, watching the dropping to sleep of this horrid crew, one by one.
When all seemed hushed–not a voice, even in a whisper, startling his ear–he ventured forth with a stealing step towards the slumbering group. Like his brave ancestor, Gaul, the son of Morni, "he disdained to stab a sleeping foe!" He must pass them to reach the private stairs. He paused and listened. Silence still reigned; not even a hand moved, so deeply were they sunk in the fumes of wine. He took courage, and flew with the lightness of air to the secret door. As he laid his hand on it, it opened from without, and two persons appeared. By the few rays which gleamed from the expiring torches of the sleepers, he could see that the first wore English armor. Murray believed himself lost; but determined to sell his life dearly, he made a spring, and caught the man by the throat; when some one seizing his arm, exclaimed, "Stop, my Lord Murray! it is the faithful Grimsby." Murray let go his hold, glad to find that both his English friend, and the venerable object of his solicitude, were thus providentially brought to meet him; but fearing that the violence of his action, and Halbert's exclamation, might have alarmed the sleeping soldiers (who, drunk as they were, were too numerous to be resisted), he laid his finger on the lip of Grimsby, and motioned to the astonished pair to follow him.
As they advanced, they perceived one of the soldiers move as if disturbed. Murray held his sword over the sleeping wretch, ready to plunge it into his heart should he attempt to rise; but he became still again; and the fugitives having approached the flag, Murray drew it up, and eager to haven his double charge, he thrust them together down the stairs. At that moment, a shriek from Helen (who had discovered, by the gleam of light which burst into the vault, a man descending in English armor), echoed through the cellars. Two of the soldiers jumped upon their feet, and rushed upon Murray. He had let the flag drop behind him; but still remaining by it, in case of an opportunity to escape; he received the strokes of their weapons upon his target, and returned thenu with equal rapidity. One assailant lay gasping at his feet. But the clashing of arms, and the cries of the survivor had already awakened the whole crew. With horrid menaces, they threw themselves towards the young Scot, and would certainly have cut him to pieces, had he not snatched the only remaining torch out of the hand of a staggering soldier, and extinguished it under his foot. Bewildered where to find their prey, with threats and imprecations, they groped in darkness, slashing the air with their swords, and not infrequently wounding each other in the vain search.
Murray was now far from their pursuit. He had no sooner put out the light, than he pulled up the flag, and leaping down, drew it after him, and found himself in safety. Desperate as was the contest, it had been short; for he yet heard the footsteps of the panic-struck Helen, flying along the passage. The Englishman and Halbert, on the first falling of the flag, not knowing its spring, had unsuccessfully tried to re-raise it, that they might assist Murray in the tumult above. On his appearing again so unexpectedly, they declared their joy: but the young lord, impatient to calm the apprehensions of his cousin, returned no other answer than "Follow me!" while he darted forward. Terror had given her wings, and even prevented her hearing the low sounds of Murray's voice, which he durst not raise to a higher pitch, for fear of being overheard by the enemy. Thus, while she lost all presence of mind, he did not come up with her till she fell breathless against the stairs at the extremity of the vault.
* The standard of Edward I. was a golden dragon,–a very ancient British standard, but derived from pagan times–(1809.)
† William Lord Soulis was a powerful chief in the south of Scotland. He founded pretensions to the Scottish crown, on his descent from an illegitimate daughter of Alexander II. Soulis was a traitor to his country, and so notoriously wicked, that tradition endows him with the power of infernal necromancy. His castle of Hermitage, in Teviotdale, is still shown as the resort of malignant demons.–(1809.)
S soon as Murray found her within his arms, he clasped her insensible form to his breast, and carrying her up the steps, drew the bolt of the door. It opened to his pressure, and discovered a large monastic cell, into which the daylight shone through one long
narrow window. A straw pallet, an altar, and a marble basin, were the furniture. The cell was solitary, the owner being then at mass in the chapel of the monastery. Murray laid down his death-like burden on the monk's bed. He then ventured (believing, as it was to restore so pure a being to life, it could not be sacrilege) to throw some of the holy water upon his cousin's face; and by means of a little chalice, which stood upon the altar, he poured some into her mouth. At last opening her eyes, she recognised the figure of her young kinsman leaning over her. The almost paralyzed Halbert stood at her feet. "Blessed Virgin! am I yet safe, and with my dear Andrew! Oh! I feared you were slain!" cried she, bursting into tears.
"Thank God, we are both safe," answered he; "comfort yourself, my beloved cousin! you are now on holy ground; this is the cell of the prior of St. Fillan. None but the hand of an infidel dare wrest you from this sanctuary."
"But my father and Lady Mar?" And again her tears flowed.
"The countess, my gracious lady," answered Halbert, "since you could not be found in the castle, is allowed to accompany your father to Dumbarton Castle, there to be treated with every respect, until De Valence receives further orders from King Edward."
"But for Wallace!" cried she, "ah, where are now the succors that were to be sent to him! And without succors, how can he, or you, dearest Andrew, rescue my father from this tyranny!"
"Do not despair," replied Murray; "Look at the banner you held fast, even while insensible; your own hands have engraven my answer–God armeth the patriot! Convinced of that, can you still fear for your father? I will join Wallace to-morrow. Your own fifty warriors await me at the bottom of Cartlane Craigs; and if any treachery should be meditated against my uncle, that moment we will make the towers of Dumbarton shake to their foundation."
Helen's reply was a deep sigh; she thought it might be Heaven's will that her father, like the good Lord Douglas, should fall a victim to royal revenge; and so sad were her forebodings, that she hardly dared to hope what the sanguine disposition of her cousin promised. Grimsby now came forward; and unloosing an iron box from under his arm, put it into the hands of Lord Murray.
"This fatal treasure," said he, "was committed to my care by the earl, your uncle, to deliver to the prior of St. Fillan's."
"What does it contain?" demanded Murray; "I never saw it before."
"I know not its contents," returned the soldier; "it belongs to Sir William Wallace."
"Indeed!" ejaculated Helen. "If it be treasure, why was it not rather sent to him!" "But how, honest soldier," asked Murray, "did you escape with it, and Halbert too! I am at a loss to conjecture, but by miracle." He replied, that as soon as the English, and their Scottish partisans under Lord Soulis, had surprised the castle, he saw that his only chance of safety was to throw off the bonnet and plaid, and mix amongst the numerous soldiers who had taken possession of the gates. His armor, and his language, showed he was their countryman; and they easily believed that he had joined the plunderers as a volunteer from the army, which at a greater distance beleaguered the castle. The story of his desertion from the Lanark garrison had not yet reached those of Glasgow and Dumbarton; and one or two men, who had known him in former expeditions, readily reported that he had been drafted into the present one. Their recognition warranted his truth; and he had no difficulty after the carnage in the state apartment, to make his way to the bed-chamber where Lord Aymer de Valence had ordered Lord Mar to be carried. He found the earl alone, and lost in grief. He knew not but that his nephew, and even his daughter and wife, had fallen beneath the impetuous swords of the enemy. Astonished at seeing the soldier walking at large, he expressed his surprise with some suspicions. But Grimsby told him the stratagem he had used, and assured him Lord Andrew had not been seen since the onset. This information inspired the earl with a hope that his nephew might have escaped: and when the soldier also said, that he had seen the Countess led by Lord Soulis across the hall towards the Lady Helen's apartments, while he overheard him promising them every respect, the earl seemed comforted. "But how," inquired he of Grimsby, "has this hard fate befallen us? Have you learnt how De Valence knew that I meant to take up arms for my country?" When the soldier was relating this part of the conference, Murray interrupted him with the same demand.
"On that head I cannot fully satisfy you," replied he; "I could only gather from the soldiers that a sealed packet had been delivered to Lord Aymer de Valence late last night at Dumbarton Castle. Soulis was then there; and he immediately set off to Glasgow, for the followers he had left in that town. Early this morning he joined De Valence and his legions on Bothwell Moor. The consequences there you know. But they do not end at Bothwell. The gallant Wallace–"
At that name, so mentioned, the heart of Helen grew cold.
"What of him ?" exclaimed Murray.
"No personal harm has yet happened to Sir William Wallace," replied Grimsby; "but at the same moment in which De Valence gave orders for his troops to march to Bothwell, he sent others to intercept that persecuted knight's escape from the Cartlane Craigs."
"That accursed sealed packet," cried. Murray, "has been the traitor! Some villain in Bothwell Castle must have written it. Whence else could come the double information? And if so," added he, with tremendous emphasis, "may the blast of slavery ever pursue him and his posterity!"
Helen shuddered, as the amen to this frightful malediction was echoed by the voices of Halbert and the soldier. The latter continued:–
"When I informed Lord Mar of these measures against Wallace, he expressed a hope that your first detachment to his assistance might, with yourself, perhaps, at its head, elude their vigilance, and join his friend. This discourse reminded him of the iron box. 'It is in that closet,' said his lordship, pointing to an opposite door; 'you will find it beneath the little altar, before which I pay my daily duties to the all-wise Dispenser of the fates of men; else where would be my confidence now? Take it thence, and buckle it to your side.'
"I obeyed; and he then proceeded–'There are two passages in this house which lead to sanctuary. The one nearest to us is the safest for you. A staircase from the closet you have just left will lead you directly into the chapel. When there hasten to the image of the Virgin, and slip aside the marble tablet on the back of the pedestal: it will admit you to a flight of steps; descend them, and at the bottom you will find a door that will convey you into a range of cellars. Lift up the largest flag-stone in the second, and you will be conducted through a dark vault to an iron door; draw the bolt, and remain in the cell it will open to you till the owner enters. He is the prior of St. Fillan's, and a Murray. Give him this golden cross, which he well knows, as a mark you come from me; and say it is my request that he assist you to gain the sea-shore. As for the iron box, tell him to preserve it as he would his life; and never to give it up, but to myself, my children, or to Sir William Wallace, its rightful master.'"
"Alas!" cried Halbert, "that he had never been its owner! that he had never brought it to Ellerslie, to draw down misery on his head! Ill-omened trust! whatever it contains, its presence carries blood and sorrow in its train. Wherever it has been deposited, war and murder have followed: I trust my dear master will never see it more!"
"He may indeed never see it more!" murmured Helen in a low voice. "Where are now my proud anticipations of freedom to Scotland? Alas, Andrew," said she, taking his hand, and weeping over it, "I have been too presumptuous;–my father is a prisoner, and Sir William Wallace is lost!"
"Cease, my dear Helen," cried he, "cease to distress yourself! These are merely vicissitudes of the great contention we are engaged in. We must expect occasional disappointments, or look for miracles every day. Such disasters are sent as lessons, to teach us precaution, promptitude, and patience–these are the soldier's graces, my sweet cousin, and depend on it I will pay them due obedience."
"But why," asked Helen, taking comfort in the unsubdued spirits of her cousin, "why, my good soldier, did not my dear father take advantage of this sanctuary?"
"I urged the earl to accompany me," returned Grimsby; "but he said, such a proceeding would leave his wife and babes in unprotected captivity. 'No,' added he, 'I will await my fate; for the God of those who trust in Him, knows that I do not fear!'"
"Having received such peremptory orders from the earl, I took my leave; and entering the chapel by the way he directed, was agreeably surprised to find the worthy Halbert, whom, never having seen since the funeral obsequies, I supposed had fallen during the carnage in the state-chamber. He was still kneeling by the tomb of his buried mistress. I did not take long to warn him of his danger, and desired him to follow me. We descended together beneath the holy statue, and were just emerging into the cellars, when you, sir, met us at the entrance.
"It was while we were yet in the chapel that I heard De Valence and Soulis at high words in the courtyard. The former, in a loud voice, gave orders that, as Lady Helen Mar could nowhere be found, the earl and countess with their two infant children, should not be separated, but be conveyed as his prisoners to Dumbarton Castle."
"That is a comfort," cried Helen; "my father will then be consoled by the presence of his wife."
"But very different would have been the case, madam, had you appeared," rejoined the soldier. "One of Lord De Valence's men told me, that Lord Soulis intended to have taken you and the countess to Dun-glass Castle, near Glasgow, while the sick earl was to have been carried alone to Dumbarton, and detained in solitary confinement. Lord Soulis was in so dreadful a rage, when you could not be found, that he accused the English commander of having leagued with Lady Mar to deceive him. In the midst of this contention, we descended into the vaults."
Helen shuddered at the thought of how near she was to falling into the hands of so fierce a spirit. In his character, he united every quality which could render power formidable; combining prodigious bodily strength with cruelty, dissimulation, and treachery. He was feared by the common people as a sorcerer; and avoided by the virtuous of his own rank, as an enemy to all public law, and the violator of every private tie. Helen Mar had twice refused his hand: first, during the contest for the kingdom, when his pretended claim to the crown was disallowed. She was then a mere child, hardly more than fourteen; but she rejected him with abhorrence. Though stung to the quick at being denied the objects of both his love and ambition at the same moment, he did not hesitate, at another period, to renew his offers to her. At the fall of Dunbar, when he again founded his uprise on the ruins of his country, as soon as he had repeated his oaths of fidelity to Edward, he hastened to Thirlestane, to throw himself a second time at the feet of Lady Helen. Her ripened judgment confirmed her youthful dislike of his ruffian qualities, and again he was rejected.
"By the powers of hell," exclaimed he, when the project of surprising Bothwell was imparted to him, "if I once get that proud minion into my grasp, she shall be mine as I will, and learn to beg for even a look from the man who has humbled her!"
Helen knew not half the afflictions with which his resentful heart had meditated to subdue and torture her; and therefore, though she shrunk at the sound of a name so generally infamous, yet, not aware of all the evils she had escaped, she replied with languor, though with gratitude, to the almost rapturous congratulations of her cousin on her timely flight.
At this period the door of the cell opened, and the prior entered from the cloisters–he started on seeing his room filled with strangers. Murray took off his helmet, and approached him. On recognising the son of his patron, the prior inquired his commands; and expressed some surprise that such a company, and above all, a lady, could have passed the convent-gate without his previous notice.
Murray pointed to the recess behind the altar; and then explained to the good priest the necessity which had compelled them to thus seek the protection of St. Fillan. "Lady Helen," continued he, "must share your care until Heaven empowers the earl of Mar to reclaim his daughter, and adequately reward this holy church."
The soldier then presented the cross, with the iron box; repeating the message that confided them also to his keeping.
The prior listened to these recitals with sorrowful attention. He had heard the noise of armed men advancing to the castle; but knowing that the earl was making warlike preparations, he had no suspicion that these were other than the Bothwell soldiers. He took the box, and laying it on the altar, pressed the cross to his lips. "The Earl of Mar shall find that fidelity here which his faith in the church merits. That mysterious chest, to which you tell me so terrible a denunciation is annexed, shall be preserved sacred as the relics of St. Fillan."
Halbert groaned heavily at these words, but he did not speak. The father looked at him attentively, and then proceeded:–"But for you, virtuous Southron, I will give you a pilgrim's habit. Travel in that privileged garb to Montrose; and there a brother of the church, the prior of Aberbrothick, will, by a letter from me, convey you in a vessel to Normandy; thence you may safely find your way to Guienne."
The soldier bowed his head; and the priest, turning to Lady Helen, told her that a cell should be appointed for her, and some pious women brought from the adjoining hamlet to pay her due attendance.
"As for this venerable man," continued he, "his silver hairs already proclaim him near his heavenly country! He had best put on the cowl of the holy brotherhood, and, in the arms of religion, repose securely, till he passes through the sleep of death to wake in everlasting life!"
Tears started into the eyes of Halbert. "I thank you reverend father; I have indeed drawn near the end of my pilgrimage–too old to serve my dear master in fields of blood and hardship, I will at least devote my last hours to uniting my prayers with his, and all good souls, for the repose of his sainted lady–I accept your invitation thankfully; and, considering it a call from Heaven to give me rest, I welcome the day that marks the poor harper of Ellerslie with the sacred tonsure."
The sound of approaching trumpets, and, soon after, the clattering of horses, and the clang of armor, made an instantaneous silence in the cell. Helen looked fearfully at her cousin, and grasped his hand; Murray clasped his sword with a firmer hold. "I will protect you with my life." He spoke in a low tone, but the soldier heard him: "There is no cause of alarm," rejoined he; "Lord de Valence is only marching by on his way to Dumbarton."
"Alas, my poor father!" cried Helen, covering her face with her hands.
The venerable prior, pitying her affliction, knelt down by her: "My daughter, be comforted," said he; "they dare not commit any violence on the earl. King Edward too well understands his own interest to allow even a long imprisonment to so popular a nobleman." This assurance, assisted by the consolation of a firm trust in God, at length raised her head with meek smile. He continued to speak of the impregnable hopes of the Christian who founds his confidence on Omnipotence; and while his words spread a serenity through her soul, that seemed the ministration of a descended saint, she closed her hands over her breast, and silently invoked the protection of the Almighty Jehovah for her suffering parent.
The prior, seeing her composed, recommended leaving her to rest. And Helen, comforted by holy meditations, allowing her cousin to depart, he led Murray and his companions into the convent library.
HE march of De Valence from the castle having proved that no suspicion of any of its late inhabitants being still in the neighborhood remained with its usurpers, Grimsby thought he might depart in safety; and next morning he begged permission of the prior to commence his journey. "I am anxious to quit a land," said he, "where my countrymen are committing violences which make me blush at the name of Englishman."
Murray put a purse of gold into the soldier's hand, while the prior covered his armor with a pilgrim's gown. Grimsby, with a respectful bow, returned the gift: "I cannot take money from you, my lord. But bestow on me the sword at your side, and that I will preserve for ever."
Murray took it off, and gave it to the soldier. "Let us exchange, my brave friend!" said he; "give me yours, and it shall be a memorial to me of having found virtue in an Englishman."
Grimsby unlocked his rude weapon in a moment, and as he put the iron hilt into the young Scot's hand, a tear stood in his eye: "When you raise your sword against my countrymen, think on Grimsby, a faithful, though humble soldier of the cross, and spare the blood of all who ask for mercy."
Murray looked a gracious assent, for the tear of mercy was infectious. Without speaking, he gave the good soldier's hand a parting grasp; and with regret that superior claims called so brave a man from his side, he saw him leave the monastery.
The mourner banquets on memory; making that which seems the poison of life, its aliment. During the hours of regret we recall the images of departed joys; and in weeping over each tender remembrance, tears so softly shed embalm the wounds of grief. To be denied the privilege of pouring forth our love and our lamentations over the grave of one who in life was our happiness, is to shut up the soul of the survivor in a solitary tomb, where the bereaved heart pines in secret till it breaks with the fulness of uncommunicated sorrow; but listen to the mourner, give his feelings way, and, like the river rolling from the hills into the valley, they will flow with a gradually gentler stream, till they become lost in time's wide ocean.
So Murray judged when the poor old harper, finding himself alone with him, again gave loose to his often-recapitulated griefs. He wept like an infant; and recounting the afflictions of his master, while bewailing the disasters at Bothwell; implored Murray to go without delay to support the now almost friendless Wallace. Murray was consoling him with the assurance that he would set off for the mountains that very evening, when the prior returned to conduct Halbert to a cell appointed for his noviciate. The good priest had placed one of his most pious fathers there, to administer both temporal and spiritual cordials to the aged sufferer.
The sorrowing domestic of Wallace being thus disposed of, the prior and Murray remained together, consulting on the safest means of passing to the Cartlane hills. A lay brother whom the prior had sent in pursuit of Helen's fifty warriors, to apprise them of the English being in the craigs, at this juncture entered the library. He informed the father that, secure in his religious garb, he had penetrated many of the Cartlane defiles, but could neither see nor hear anything of the party. Every glen or height was occupied by the English; and from a woman, of whom he begged a draught of milk, he had learned how closely the mountains were invested. The English commander, in his zeal to prevent provisions being conveyed to Wallace and his famishing garrison, had stopped a procession of monks bearing a dead body to the sepulchral cave of Saint Columba. He would not allow them to ascend the heights until he had examined whether the bier really bore a corpse, or was a vehicle to carry food to the beleaguered Scots.
In the midst of this information, the prior and his friends were startled by a shout; and soon after a tumult of voices, in which might be distinguished the cry of "A gallows for the traitor!"
"Our brave Englishman has fallen into their hands," cried Murray, hastening towards the door.
"What would you do?" interrupted the prior, holding him. "Your single arm could not save the soldier. The cross has more power; I will seek these violent men. Meanwhile, stay here, as you value the lives of all in the convent."
Murray had now recollected himself, and acquiesced. The prior took the crucifix from the altar, and ordering the porter to throw open the great doors (near where the incessant shouting seemed to proceed), he appeared before a turbulent band of soldiers, who were dragging a man along, fast bound with their leathern belts. Blood, trickling from his face, fell on the hands of the ruthless wretches, who, with horrid yells, were threatening him with instant death.
The prior, raising the cross, rushed in amongst them, and, in the name of the blessed Son who died on that tree, bade them stand. The soldiers trembled before the holy majesty of his figure, and at his awful adjuration. The prior looked on the prisoner, but he not see the dark locks of the Englishman; it was the yellow hair of Scotland that mingled with the blood on his forehead.
"Whither do you hurry that wounded man?"
"To his death," answered a surly fellow.
"What is his offence?"
"He is a traitor."
"How has he proved it?"
"He is a Scot, and he belongs to the disloyal lord of Mar. This bugle, with its crowned falcon, proves it," added the Southron, holding up the very bugle which the earl had sent by Halbert to Wallace, and which was ornamented with the crest of Mar wrought in gold.
"That this has been Lord Mar's," replied the prior, "there is no doubt; but may not this man have found it? Or may it not have been given to him by the earl, before that chief incurred the displeasure of King Edward? Which of you would think it just to be made to die because your friend was condemned to the scaffold? Unless you substantiate your charge against this man, by a better proof than this bugle, his death would be a murder, which the Lord of life will requite in the perdition of your souls." As the father spoke, he again elevated the cross: the men turned pale.
"I am a minister of Christ," continued he, "and must be the friend of justice. Release, therefore, that wounded man to me. Before the altar of the Searcher of all hearts he shall confess himself; and if I find that he is guilty unto death, I promise you by the holy St. Fillan, to release him to your commanding officer, and so let justice take its course. But if he proves innocent, I am the soldier of Christ, and no monarch on earth shall wrest his children from the protection of the church."
While he spake, the men who held the prisoner let go their hold and the prior stretching out his hand to him, gave him to a party of monks to conduct into the convent. Then, to convince the soldiers that it was the man's life he sought to save, and not the spoil, he returned the golden bugle, and bade them depart in peace.
Awed by the father's address, and satisfied with the money and arms of which they had rifled the stranger, the marauders retreated; determining, indeed, to say nothing of the matter to the officer in the castle, lest he should demand the horn; and, elated with present booty, they marched off to pursue their plundering excursion. Bursting into yeomen's houses and peasant's huts, stripping all of their substance who did or did not swear fealty to Edward; thus robbing the latter, and exacting contributions from the former; while vain prayers for mercy, and unanswered cries for redress, echoed dolefully through the vale of Bothwell, they sped gaily on, as if murder were pastime, and rapine honor.
The prior, on returning to the convent, ordered the gates to be bolted. When he entered the chapter-house, finding the monks had already bound up the wounds of the stranger, he made a sign for the brethren to withdraw; and then, approaching the young man, "My son," said he, in a mild tone, "you heard my declaration to the men from whom I took you! Answer me with truth, and you shall find that virtue or repentance have alike a refuge in the arms of the church. As I am its servant, no man need fear to confide in me. Speak with candor! How came you by that bugle?"
The stranger looked steadfastly on his questioner: "A minister of the all-righteous God cannot mean to deceive. You have saved my life, and I should be less than man could I doubt the evidence of that deed. I received that bugle from a brave Scot who dwells amongst the eastern mountains; and who gave it to me to assure the earl of Mar that I came from him."
The prior apprehended that it was of Wallace he spoke. "You come to request a military aid from the earl of Mar!" rejoined the father, willing to sound him, before he committed Murray, by calling him to the conference.
The stranger replied: "If, reverend sir, you are in the confidence of the good earl, pronounce but the Christian name of the man who charged me with the bugle, and allow me then, for his sake, to ask you, what has indeed happened to the earl! that I was seized by foes, when I expected to meet with friends only! Reply to this, and I shall speak freely; but at present, though I would confide all of myself to your sacred character, yet the confidence of others is not mine to bestow."
The prior being convinced by this caution, that he was indeed speaking with some messenger from Wallace, made no hesitation to answer. "Your master is a knight, and a braver never drew breath, since the time of his royal namesake, William the Lion!"
The man rose hastily from his seat, and falling on his knees before the prior, put his garment to his lips:–"Father, I now know that I am with a friend of my persecuted master! But if, indeed, the situation of Lord Mar precludes assistance from him, all hope is lost! The noble Wallace is penned within the hills, without any hopes of escape. Suffer me, then, thou venerable saint! to rejoin him immediately, that I may at least die with my friend!"
"Hope for a better destiny," returned the prior; "I am a servant, and not to be worshipped: turn to the altar, and kneel to Him who can alone send the succor you need!"
The good man thinking it was now time to call the young lord of Bothwell, by a side-door from the chapter-house, entered the library, where Murray was anxiously awaiting his return. On his entrance, the impatient youth eagerly exclaimed, "Have you rescued him?"
"Grimsby, I hope, is far and safely on his journey," answered the good priest; "but the man those murderers were dragging to death, is in the chapter-house. Follow me, and he will give you news of Wallace."
Murray gladly obeyed.
At sight of a Scottish knight in armor, the messenger of Wallace thought his prayers were answered, and that he saw before him the leader of the host which was to march to the preservation of his brave commander. Murray told him who he was; and learnt from him in return, that Wallace now considered himself in a state of siege; that the women, children, and old men, with him, had nothing to feed on but wild strawberries and birds' eggs, which they found in the hollows of rocks. "To relieve them from such hard quarters, girded by a barrier of English soldiers," continued the narrator, "is his first wish; but that cannot be effected by our small number. However, he would make the attempt by a stratagem, could we be at all supported by succors from the earl of Mar!"
"My uncle's means," replied Murray, "are for a time cut off; but mine shall be exerted to the utmost. Did you not meet, somewhere, a company of Scots to the number of fifty? I sent them off yesterday to seek your noble chief."
"No," rejoined the young man; "I fear they have been taken by the enemy; for in my way to Sir William Wallace, not knowing the English were so close to his sanctuary, I was nearly seized myself. I had not the good fortune to be with him, when he struck the first blow for Scotland in the citadel of Lanark; but as soon as I heard the tale of his wrongs, and that he had retired in arms towards the Cartlane Craigs, I determined to follow his fate. We had been companions in our boyish days, and friends after. He saved my life once, in swimming; and now that a formidable nation menaces his, I seek to repay the debt. For this purpose, a few nights ago I left my guardian's house by stealth, and sought my way to my friend. I found the banks of the Mouse occupied by the English; but exploring the most intricate passes, at last gained the bottom of the precipice on the top of which Wallace is encamped; and as I lay among the bushes, watching an opportunity to ascend, I perceived two English soldiers near me. They were in discourse, and I overheard them say, that besides Heselrigge himself, nearly two hundred of his garrison had fallen by the hand of Wallace's men in the contention at the castle: that the tidings were sent to Sir Richard Arnulf, the deputy-governor of Ayr; and he had despatched a thousand men to surround Cartlane Craigs, spies having given notice that they were Sir William's strongholds; and the orders were, that he must be taken dead or alive; while all his adherents, men and women, should receive no quarter.
"Such was the information I brought to my gallant friend, when in the dead of night I mounted the rock, and calling to the Scottish sentinel in Gaelic, gave him my name, and was allowed to enter that sacred spot. Wallace welcomed his faithful Ker, * and soon unfolded his distress and his hopes. He told me of the famine that threatened his little garrison; of the constant watching, day and night, necessary to prevent a surprise. But in his extremity, he observed that one defile was thinly guarded by the enemy; probably because; as it lay at the bottom of a perpendicular angle of the rock, they thought it unattainable by the Scots. To this point, however, my dauntless friend turned his eyes. He would attempt it, could he procure a sufficient number of fresh men to cover the retreat of his exhausted few. For this purpose, as I had so lately explored the most hidden paths of the craigs, I volunteered to visit the Lord Mar, and to conduct, in safety, any succors he might send to our persecuted leader."
"This," continued Ker, "was the errand on which I came to the earl. Think then my horror, when in my journey I found redoubled legions hemming in the hills; and on advancing towards Bothwell Castle, was seized by a party of English, rifled, and declared an accomplice with that nobleman, who, they said, was condemned to lose his head!"
"Not so bad as that, my brave Ker," cried Murray, a glow of indignation flushing his cheek; "many a bull's head * shall frown in this land, on the Southron tables, before my uncle's neck gluts their axes! No true Scottish blood, I trust, will ever stain their scaffolds; for while we have arms to wield a sword, he must be a fool that grounds them on any other terms than freedom or death. We have cast our lives on the die; and Wallace's camp or the narrow house must be our prize!"
"Noble youth!" exclaimed the prior, "may the innocence which gives animation to your courage, continue its moving soul! They only are invincible, who are as ready to die as to live; and no one can be firm in that principle, whose exemplary life is not a happy preparation for the awful change."
Murray bowed modestly to this pious encomium; and turning to Ker, informed him, that since he must abandon all hope of hearing any more of the fifty brave men his cousin Helen had sent to the craigs, he bethought him of applying to his uncle Sir John Murray, who dwelt hard by, on his estate at Drumshargard. "It is small," said he, "and cannot afford many men; but still he may spare sufficient to effect the escape of our commander; and that for the present will be a host!"
To accomplish his design without delay–for promptitude is the earnest of success–and to avoid a surprise from the English lieutenant at Bothwell (who, hearing of the recontre before the castle, might choose to demand his men's prisoner), Murray determined to take Ker with him; and, disguised as peasants, as soon as darkness should shroud their movements, proceed to Drumshargard.
* The stem of this brave name, in subsequent times, became two great branches, the Roxburghe and the Lothian.
* A bull's head, presented at a feast, was a sign that some one of the company was immediately to be put to death.–(1809.)
HILE these transactions occupied the morning, Lady Helen (who the night before had been removed into the quiet cell appointed for her) slept long and sweetly. Her exhausted frame found renovation; and she awoke with a heavenly calm at her heart. A cheering vision had visited her sleeping thoughts; and a trance of happy feelings absorbed her senses, while her hardly disengaged spirit still hovered over its fading images.
She had seen in her dream a young knight enter her cell, bearing her father in his arms. He laid the earl down before her; but as she stooped to embrace him, the knight took her by the hand, and leading her to the window of the apartment (which seemed extended to an immense size), he smiled, and said, "Look out, and see how I have performed my vow!" She obeyed, and saw crowds of rejoicing people, who at sight of the young warrior raised such a shout, that Helen awoke. She started–she looked around–she was still in the narrow cell, and alone; but the rapture of holding her father yet fluttered in her breast, and the touch of the warrior's hand seemed still warm upon hers. "Angels of rest," cried she, "I thank ye for this blessed vision!"
The prior of St. Fillan might have read his own just sentiment in the heart of Lady Helen. While the gentlest of human beings, she was an evidence that an ardent and pious mind contains the true principles of heroism. Hope, in such a mind, treads down impossibilities; and, regardless of impediments or dangers, rushes forward to seize the prize. In the midst of hosts, it feels a conqueror's power; or, when its strength fails, sees, by the eye of faith, legions of angels watching to support the natural weakness. Lady Helen knew that the cause was just which had put the sword into the hand of Wallace; that it was virtue which had prompted her father to second him; and where justice is, there are the wings of the Most High stretched out as a shield!
The dream seemed prophetic. "Yes," cried she, "though thousands of Edward's soldiers surrounded my father and his friend, I should not despair. Thy life, O! noble Wallace, was not given to be extinguished in an hour! Thy morn has hardly risen, the perfect day must come that is to develop thy greatness–that is to prove thee (and oh! gracious God, grant my prayer!) the glory of Scotland!"
Owing to the fervor of her apostrophe, she did not observe the door of the cell open, till the prior stood before her. After expressing his pleasure at the renovation in her countenance, he informed her of the departure of the English soldier; and of the alarm which he and Murray had sustained for his safety, by the adventure which had thrown a stranger from the craigs into their protection. At the mention of that now momentous spot, she blushed; the golden-haired warrior of her dreams seemed ready to rise before her; and with a beating heart she prepared to hear some true but miraculous account of her father's rescue.
Unconscious of what was passing in her young and eager mind, the prior calmly proceeded to relate all that Ker had told of the dangerous extremity to which Wallace was reduced; and then closed his intelligence by mentioning the attempt which her cousin meditated to save him. The heightened color gradually faded from the face of Helen, and low sighs were her only responses to the observations the good priest made on the difficulty of the enterprise. But when his pity for the brave men engaged in the cause, betrayed him into expressing his fears that the patriotic zeal of Wallace would only make him and them a sacrifice, Helen looked up; there was inspiration on her lips and in her eyes. "Father," said she, "hast thou not taught me that God shieldeth the patriot as well as armeth him!"
"True!" returned he, with an answering smile; "steadily believe this, and where will be the sighs you have just been breathing!"
"Nature will shrink," replied she; "but the Christian's hope checks her ere she falls. Pardon me then, holy father, that I sometimes weep; but they are often tears of trust and consolation."
"Daughter of heaven," replied the good prior, "you might teach devotion to age, and cause youth to be enamored of the graces of religion! Be ever thus, and you may look with indifference on the wreck of worlds."
Helen having meekly replied to this burst from the heart of the holy man, begged to see her cousin before he set off on his expedition. The prior withdrew, and within an hour after, Murray entered the apartment. Their conversation was long, and their parting full of an interest that dissolved them both into tears. "When I see you again, my brave cousin, tell me that my father is free, and his preserver safe. Your own life, dear Andrew," added she, as he pressed his cheek to hers, "must always be precious to me."
Murray hastily withdrew, and Helen was again alone.
The young chieftain and Ker covered their armor with shepherd's plaids; and having received a thousand blessings from the prior and Halbert, proceeded under shelter of the night, through the obscurest paths of the wood which divided Bothwell from Drumshargard.
Sir John Murray was gone to rest when his nephew arrived, but Lord Andrew's voice being well known by the porter, he was admitted into the house; and leaving his companion in the dining-hall, went to the apartment of his uncle. The old knight was soon aroused, and welcomed his nephew with open arms; for he had feared, from the accounts brought by the fugitive tenants of Bothwell, that he also had been carried away prisoner.
Murray now unfolded his errand;–first to obtain a band of Sir John's trustiest people, to assist in rescuing the preserver of the earl's life from immediate destruction; and secondly, if a commission for Lord Mar's release did not arrive from King Edward to aid him to free his uncle and the countess from Drumbarton Castle.
Sir John listened with growing anxiety to his nephew's details. When he heard of Lady Helen's continuing in the convent, he highly approved of it. "That is well," said he; "to bring her to any private protection, would only spread calamity. She might be traced, and her protector put in danger; none but the church with safety to itself, can grant asylum to the daughter of a state prisoner."
"Then I doubly rejoice she is there," replied Murray, "and there she will remain till your generous assistance empowers me to rescue her father."
"Lord Mar has been very rash, nephew," returned Drumshargard. "What occasion was there for him to volunteer sending men to support Sir William Wallace? and how durst he bring ruin on Bothwell Castle, by collecting, unauthorized by my brother, its vassals for so dangerous an experiment?"
Murray started at these unexpected observations. He knew his uncle was timid, but he had never suspected him of meanness; however, in consideration of the respect he owed him as his father's brother, he smothered his disgust, and gave him a mild answer. But the old man could not approve of a nobleman of his rank, running himself, his fortune, and his friends into peril, to pay any debt of gratitude; and as to patriotic sentiments being a stimulus, he treated the idea with contempt. "Trust me, Andrew," said he, "nobody profits by these notions but thieves, and desperate fellows ready to become thieves!"
"I do not understand you, sir!"
"Not understand me?" replied the knight, rather impatiently. "Who suffers in these contests for liberty, as you choose to call them, but such men as Lord Mar and your father? Betrayed by artful declamation, they rush into conspiracies against the existing government, are detected, ruined, and perhaps finally lose their lives! Who gains by rebellion, but a few penniless wretches, that embrace these vaunted principles from the urgency of their necessities! They acquire plunder, under the mask of extraordinary disinterestedness; and hazarding nothing of themselves but their worthless lives, they would make tools of the first men in the realm; and throw the whole country into flames, that they may catch a few brands from the fire!"
Young Murray felt his anger rise with this speech. "You do not speak to my point, sir! I do not come here to dispute the general evil of revolt, but to ask your assistance to snatch two of the bravest men in Scotland from the fangs of the tyrant who has made you a slave!"
"Nephew!" cried the knight, starting from his couch, and darting a fierce look at him, "if any man but one of my own blood had uttered that word, this hour should have been his last!"
"Every man, sir," continued Murray, "who acts upon your principles, must know himself to be a slave;–and to resent being called so, is to affront his own conscience. A name is nothing; the fact ought to knock upon your heart, and there arouse the indignation of a Scot and a Murray. See you not the villages of your country burning around you? the castles of your chieftains razed to the ground? Did not the plains of Dunbar reek with the blood of your kinsmen; and even now, do you not see them led away in chains to the strongholds of the tyrant? Are not your stoutest vassals pressed from your service, and sent into foreign wars? And yet you exclaim, 'I see no injury–I spurn at the name of slave!'"
Murray rose from his seat as he ended, and walking the room in agitation, did not perceive the confusion of his uncle, who, at once overcome with conviction and fear, again ventured to speak:– "It is too sure you speak truth, Andrew; but what am I, or any other private individual, that we should make ourselves a forlorn hope for the whole nation? Will Baliol, who was the first to bow to the usurper, will he thank us for losing our heads in resentment of his indignity? Bruce himself, the rightful heir of the crown, leaves us to our fates, and has become a courtier in England! For whom, then, should I adventure my gray hairs, and the quiet of my home, to seek an uncertain liberty, and to meet an almost certain death?"
"For Scotland! uncle," replied he; "just laws are her right. You are her son; and if you do not make one in the grand attempt to rescue her from the bloodhounds which tear her vitals, the guilt of parricide will be on your soul! Think not, sir, to preserve your home, or even your gray hairs, by hugging the chains by which you are bound. You are a Scot, and that is sufficient to arm the enemy against your property and life. Remember the fate of Lord Monteith! At the very time he was beset by the parasites of Edward, and persuaded by their flatteries to be altogether as an Englishman, in that very hour, when he had taken a niece of Cressingham's to his arms, by her hands the vengeance of Edward reached him–he fell!"
Murray saw that his uncle was struck, and that he trembled.
"But I am too insignificant, Andrew!"
"You are the brother of Lord Bothwell!" answered Murray, with all the dignity of his father rising in his countenance. "His large possessions made him a traitor in the eyes of the tyrant's representatives. Cressingham, as treasurer for the crew, has already sent his lieutenant to lord it in our paternal castle; and do not deceive yourself in believing that some one of his officers will not require the fertile fields of Drumshargard as a reward for his services! No!–cheat not yourself with the idea that the brother of Lord Bothwell will be too insignificant to share in the honor of bearing a part in the confiscations of his country! Trust me, my uncle, the forbearance of tyrants is not that of mercy, but of convenience. When they need your wealth, or your lands, your submission is forgotten, and a prison, or the axe, ready to give them quiet possession."
Sir John Murray, though a timid and narrow-sighted man, now fully comprehended his nephew's reasoning; and his fears taking a different turn, he hastily declared his determination to set off immediately for the Highlands. "In the morning, by daybreak," said he, "I will commence my journey, and join my brother at Loch-awe; for I cannot believe myself safe a moment, while so near the garrisons of the enemy."
Murray approved this plan; and after obtaining his hard-wrung leave to take thirty men from his vassals, he returned to Ker, to inform him of the success of his mission. It was not necessary, neither would it have been agreeable to his pride, to relate the arguments which had been required to obtain this small assistance; and in the course of an hour he brought together the appointed number of the bravest men on the estate. When equipped, he led them into the hall, to receive the last command from their feudal lord.
On seeing them armed, with every man his drawn dirk in his hand, Sir John turned pale. Murray, with the unfolded banner of Mar in his grasp, and Ker by his side, stood at their head.
"Young men," said the old knight, striving to speak in a firm tone, "in this expedition you are to consider yourselves the followers of my nephew; he is brave and honorable, therefore I commit you to his command. But as you go on his earnest petition, I am not answerable to any man for the enterprises to which he may lead you."
"Be they all on my own head!" cried Murray, blushing at his uncle's pusillanimity, and drawing out his sword with an impatience that made the old knight start. "We now have your permission to depart, sir?"
Sir John gave a ready assent; he was anxious to get so hot-headed a youth out of his house, and to collect his gold and servants, that he might commence his own flight by break of day.
It was still dark as midnight when Murray and his little company passed the heights above Drumshargard, and took their rapid though silent march towards the cliffs, which would conduct them to the more dangerous passes of the Cartlane Craigs.
WO days passed drearily away to Helen. She could not expect tidings from her cousin in so short a time. No more happy dreams cheered her lonely hours; and anxiety to learn what might be the condition of the earl and countess so possessed her, that visions of affright now disturbed both her waking and sleeping senses. Fancy showed them in irons and in a dungeon, and sometimes she started in horror, thinking that perhaps at that moment the assassin's steel was raised against the life of her father.
On the morning of the third day, when she was chiding herself for such rebellious despondence, her female attendant entered to say, that a friar was come to conduct her where she would see messengers from Lady Mar. Helen lingered not a moment, but giving her hand to the good father, was led by him into the library, where the prior was standing between two men in military habits. One wore English armor, with his visor closed; the other, a knight, was in tartans. The Scot presented her with a signet, set in gold. Helen looked on it, and immediately recognised the same that her stepmother always used.
The Scottish knight was preparing to address her, when the prior interrupted him, and taking Lady Helen's hand, made her seat herself. "Compose yourself for a few minutes," said he; "this transitory life hourly brings forward events to teach us to be calm, and to resign our wishes and our wills to the Lord of all things."
Helen looked fearfully in his face. "Some evil tidings are to be told me." The blood left her lips; it seemed leaving her heart also. The prior, full of compassion, hesitated to speak. The Scot abruptly answered her:–
"Be not alarmed, lady, your parents have fallen into humane hands. I am sent, under the command of this noble Southron knight, to conduct you to them."
"Then my father lives! They are safe!" cried she, in a transport of joy, and bursting into tears.
"He yet lives," returned the officer; "but his wounds opening afresh, and the fatigues of his journey, have so exhausted him, that Lord Aymer de Valence has granted the prayers of the countess, and we come to take you to receive his last blessing."
A cry of anguish burst from the heart of Lady Helen, and falling into the arms of the prior, she found refuge from woe in a merciful insensibility. The pitying exertions of the venerable father at last recalled her to recollection and to sorrow. She rose from the bench on which he had laid her, and begged permission to retire for a few minutes; tears choked her further utterance, and, being led out by the friar, she once more re-entered her cell.
Lady Helen passed the moments she had requested in those duties which alone can give comfort to the afflicted, when all that is visible bids us despair; and rising from her knees, with that holy fortitude which none but the devout can know, she took her mantle and veil, and throwing them over her, sent her attendant to the prior, to say she was ready to set out on her journey, and wished to receive his parting benediction. The venerable father, followed by Halbert, obeyed her summons. On seeing the poor old harper, Helen's heart lost some of its newly-acquired composure. She held out her hand to him; he pressed it to his lips:– "Farewell, sweetest lady! May the prayers of the dear saint, to whose remains your pious care gave a holy grave, draw down upon your own head consolation and peace!" The old man sobbed; and the tears of Lady Helen, as he bent upon her hand, dropped upon his silver hair. "May Heaven hear you, good Halbert! And cease not, venerable man, to pray for me; for I go into the hour of trial."
"All that dwell in this house, my daughter," rejoined the prior, "shall put up orisons for your comfort, and for the soul of the departing earl." Observing that her grief augmented at these words, he proceeded in a yet more soothing voice: "Regret not that he goes before you, for what is death but entrance into life? It is the narrow gate, which shuts us from this dark world, to usher us into another, of everlasting light and happiness. Weep not, then, dear child of the church, that your earthly parents precede you to the heavenly Father; rather say, with the Virgin Saint Bride, 'How long, O Lord, am I to be banished thy presence? How long endure the prison of my body, before I am admitted to the freedom of paradise, to the bliss of thy saints above?'"
Helen raised her eyes, yet shining in tears, and with a divine smile pressing the crucifix to her breast, "You do indeed arm me, my father! This is my strength!"
"And one that will never fail thee!" exclaimed he. She dropped upon one knee before him. He crossed his hands over her head–he looked up to heaven–his bosom heaved–his lips moved,–then pausing a moment,– "Go," said he, "and may the angels which guard innocence minister to your sorrows, and lead you into peace!"
Helen bowed, and breathing inwardly a devout response, rose and followed the prior out of the cell. At the end of the cloister she again bade farewell to Halbert. Before the great gates stood the knights with their attendants. She once more kissed the crucifix held by the prior, and giving her hand to the Scot, was placed by him on a horse richly caparisoned. He sprung on another himself, while the English officer, who was already mounted, drawing up to her, she pulled down her veil, and all bowing to the holy brotherhood at the porch, rode off at a gentle pace.
A long stretch of woods, which spread before the monastery, and screened the back of Bothwell Castle from being discernible on that side of the Clyde, lay before them. Through this green labyrinth they pursued their way, till they crossed the river.
"Time wears!" exclaimed the Scot to his companion; "we must push on." The English knight nodded, and set his spurs into his steed. The whole troop now fell into a rapid trot. The banks of the Avon opened into a hundred beautiful seclusions, which, intersecting the deep sides of the river with umbrageous shades and green hillocks, seemed to shut it from the world. Helen in vain looked for the distant towers of Dumbarton Castle marking the horizon; no horizon appeared, but ranges of rocks and wooded precipices.
A sweet breeze played through the valley and revived her harassed frame. She put aside her veil to enjoy its freshness, and saw that the knights turned their horses' heads into one of the obscurest mountain defiles. She started at its depth, and at the gloom which involved its extremity. "It is our nearest path," said the Scot. Helen made no reply, but turning her steed also, followed him, there being room for only one at a time to ride along the narrow margin of the river that flowed at its base. The Englishman, whose voice she had not yet heard, and his attendants followed likewise in file; and with difficulty the horses could make their way through the thicket which interlaced the pathway, so confined, indeed, that it rather seemed a cleft made by an earthquake in the mountain, than a road for the use of man.
When they had been employed for an hour in breaking their way through this trackless glen, they came to a wider space, where other and broader ravines opened before them. The Scot, taking a pass to the right, raised his bugle, and blew so sudden a blast that the horse on which Lady Helen sat took fright, and began to plunge and rear, to the evident hazard of throwing her into the stream. Some of the dismounted men, seeing her danger, seized the horse by the bridle; while the English knight, extricating her from the saddle, carried her through some clustering bushes into a cave, and laid her at the feet of an armed man.
Terrified at this extraordinary action, she started up with a piercing shriek, but was at that moment enveloped in the arms of the stranger, while a loud shout of exultation resounded from the Scot, who stood at the entrance. It was echoed from without. There was horror in every sound. "Blessed Virgin, protect me!" cried she, striving to break from the fierce grasp that held her. "Where am I?" looking wildly at the two men who had brought her: "Why am I not taken to my father?"
She received no answer, and both the Scot and the Englishman left the place. The stranger still held her locked in a gripe that seemed of iron. In vain she struggled, in vain she shrieked, in vain she called on earth and heaven for assistance; she was held, and still he kept silence. Exhausted with terror and fruitless attempts for release, she put her hands together, and in a calmer tone exclaimed, "If you have honor or humanity in your heart, release me! I am an unprotected woman, praying for your mercy; withhold it not, for the sake of heaven and your own soul!"
"Kneel to me then, thou siren!" cried the warrior, with fierceness. As he spoke, he threw the tender knees of Lady Helen upon the rocky floor. His voice echoed terribly in her ears, but obeying him, "Free me," cried she, "for the sake of my dying father!"
"Never, till I have had my revenge!"
At this dreadful denunciation she shuddered to the soul, but yet she spoke: "Surely I am mistaken for some one else! Oh, how can I have offended any man to incur so cruel an outrage?"
The warrior burst into a satanic laugh, and throwing up his visor, "Behold me, Helen!" cried he, grasping her clasped hands with a horrible force. "My hour is come!"
At the sight of the dreadful face of Soulis, she comprehended all her danger, and with supernatural strength, wresting her hands from his hold, she burst through the bushes out of the cave. Her betrayers stood at the entrance, and catching her in their arms, brought her back to their lord. But it was an insensible form they now laid before him; overcome with horror her senses had fled. Short was this suspension from misery; water was thrown on her face, and she awoke to recollection, lying on the bosom of her enemy. Again she struggled, again her cries echoed from side to side of the cavern. "Peace!" cried the monster; "you cannot escape; you are now mine for ever! Twice you refused to be my wife; you dared to despise my love and my power; now you shall feel my hatred and my revenge!"
"Kill me!" cried the distracted Helen; "kill me and I will bless you!"
"That would be a poor vengeance," cried he: "you must be humbled, proud minion, you must learn to fawn on me for a smile; to woo, as my slave, for one of those caresses you spurned to receive as my wife." As he spoke, he strained her to his breast, with the contending expressions of passion and revenge glaring in his eyes. Helen shrieked at the pollution of his lips; and as he more fiercely held her, her hand struck against the hilt of his dagger. In a moment she drew it, and armed with the strength of outraged innocence, unwitting whether it gave death or not, only hoping it would release her, she struck it into his side. All was the action of an instant; while as instantaneously, he caught her wrist, and exclaiming, "Damnable traitress!" dashed her from him, stunned and motionless, to the ground.
The weapon had not penetrated far. But the sight of his blood, drawn by the hand of a woman, incensed the raging Soulis. He called aloud on Macgregor. The two men, who yet stood without the cave, re-entered. They started when they saw a dagger in his hand, and Helen, lying apparently lifeless, with blood sprinkled on her garments.
Macgregor, who had personated the Scottish knight, in a tremulous voice, asked why he had killed the lady?
Soulis frowned: "Here!" cried he, throwing open his vest: "this wound that beautiful fiend you so piteously look upon, aimed at my life!"
"My lord," said the other man, who had heard her shrieks, "I expected different treatment for the earl of Mar's daughter."
"Base Scot!" returned Soulis, "when you brought a woman into these wilds to me, you had no right to expect I should use her otherwise than as I pleased, and you, as the servile minister of my pleasures."
"This language, Lord Soulis!" rejoined the man, much agitated; "but you mistook me–I meant not to reproach."
"'Tis well you did not;" and turning from him with contempt, he listened to Macgregor, who, stooping towards the inanimate Helen, observed that her pulse beat. "Fool!" returned Soulis, "did you think I would so rashly throw away what I have been at such pains to gain? Call your wife; she knows how to teach these minions submission to my will."
The man obeyed; and while his companion, by the command of Soulis, bound a fillet round the bleeding forehead of Helen, cut by the flints, the chief brought two chains and fastening them to her wrists and ankles, exclaimed, with brutal triumph, while he locked them on: "There, my haughty damsel! flatter not thyself that the arms of Soulis shall be thine only fetters."
Macgregor's wife entered, and promised to obey all her lord's injunctions. When she was left alone with the breathless body of Helen, water, and a few cordial drops, which she poured into the unhappy lady's mouth, soon recalled her wretched senses. On opening her eyes, the sight of one of her own sex inspired her with some hope; but attempting to stretch out her hands in supplication, she was horror-struck at finding them fastened, and at the clink of the chains which bound her. "Why am I thus?" demanded she of the woman; but suddenly recollecting having attempted to pierce Soulis with his own dagger, and now supposing she had slain him, she added, "Is Lord Soulis killed?"
"No," replied the woman; "my husband says he is but slightly hurt; and surely your fair face belies your heart, if you could intend the death of so brave and loving a lord!"
"You then belong to him?" cried the wretched Helen, wringing her hands. "What will be my unhappy fate! Virgin of heaven, take me to thyself!"
"Heaven forbid!" cried the woman, "that you should pray against being the favorite lady of our noble chief! Many are the scores around Hermitage Castle who would come hither on their hands and knees to arrive at that happiness."
"Happiness!" cried Lady Helen, in anguish of spirit; "it can visit me no more till I am restored to my father, till I am released from the power of Soulis. Give me liberty," continued she, wildly grasping the arm of the woman. "Assist me to escape, and half the wealth of the earl of Mar shall be your reward."
"Alas!" returned the woman, "my lord would burn me on the spot, and murder my husband, did he think I even listened to such a project. No, lady; you never will see your father more; for none who so enter my lord's Hermitage, ever wish to come out again."
"The Hermitage!" cried Helen, in augmented horror. "Oh, Father of mercy! never let me live to enter those accursed walls!"
"They are frightful enough, to be sure," returned the woman; "but you, gentle lady, will be princess there; and in all things commanding the kingly heart of its lord, have rather cause to bless than to curse the castle of Soulis."
"Himself, and all that bear his name, are accursed to me," returned Helen: "his love is my abomination, his hatred my dread. Pity me, kind creature; and if you have a daughter whose honor is dear to your prayers, think you see her in me, and have compassion on me. My life is in your hands; for I swear before the throne of Almighty Purity, that Soulis shall see me die rather than dishonored!"
"Poor young soul!" cried the woman, looking at her frantic gestures with commiseration; "I would pity you if I durst; but I repeat, my life, and my husband's and my children, who are now near Hermitage, would all be sacrificed to the rage of Lord Soulis. You must be content to submit to his will." Helen closed her hands over her face in mute despair, and the woman went on: "And as for the matter of your making such lamentations about your father, if he be as little your friend as your mother is, you have not much cause to grieve on that score."
Helen started. "My mother! what of her!–Speak! tell me! It was indeed her signet that betrayed me into these horrors. She cannot have consented–Oh, no! some villains!–speak! tell me what you would say of Lady Mar?"
Regardless of the terrible emotion which now shook the frame of her auditor, the woman coolly replied, she had heard from her husband, who was the confidential servant of Lord Soulis, that it was to Lady Mar he owed the knowledge of Helen being at Bothwell. The countess had written a letter to her cousin, Lord Buchan, who, being a sworn friend of England, was then with Lord de Valence at Dumbarton. In this epistle she intimated "her wish that Lord Buchan would devise a plan to surprise Bothwell Castle the ensuing day, to prevent the departure of its armed vassals, then preparing to march to the support of the outlaw Sir William Wallace, who, with his band of robbers, was lurking about the caverns of the Cartlane Craigs."
When this letter arrived, Lord Soulis was at dinner with the other lords; and Buchan, laying it before De Valence, they all consulted what was best to be done. Lady Mar begged her cousin not to appear in the affair himself, that she might escape the suspicions of her lord; who, she strongly declared, was not arming his vassals for any disloyal disposition towards the king of England, but solely at the instigations of Wallace, to whom he romantically considered himself bound by the ties of gratitude. As she gave this information, she hoped that no attainder would fall upon her husband. And to keep the transaction as close as possible, she proposed that the Lord Soulis, who she understood was then at Dumbarton, should take the command of two or three thousand troops, and marching to Bothwell next morning, seize the few hundred armed Scots who were there ready to proceed to the mountains. She ended by saying that her daughter-in-law was in the castle, which she hoped would be an inducement to Soulis to insure the earl of Mar's safety for the sake of her hand as his reward.
The greatest part of Lady Mar's injunctions could not be attended to, as Lord de Valence, as well as Soulis, was made privy to the secret. The English nobleman declared that he should not do his duty to his king if he did not head the force that went to quell so dangerous a conspiracy; and Soulis, eager to go at any rate, joyfully accepted the honor of being his companion. Lord Buchan was easily persuaded to the seizure of the earl's person, as De Valence flattered him that the king would endow him with the Mar estates, which must now be confiscated. Helen groaned at the latter part of this narration; but the woman, without noticing it, proceeded to relate how, when the party had executed their design at Bothwell Castle, she was to have been taken by Soulis to his castle near Glasgow; but on that wily Scot not finding her, he conceived the suspicion that Lord de Valence had prevailed on the countess to give her up to him. He observed, that the woman who could be induced to betray her daughter to one man, would easily be bribed to repeat the crime to another; and under this impression, he accused the English nobleman of treachery. De Valence denied it vehemently; a quarrel ensued, and Soulis departed with a few of his followers, giving out that he was retiring in high indignation to Dun-glass. But the fact was, he lurked about in Bothwell wood; and from its recesses saw Cressingham's lieutenant march by to take possession of the castle in the king's name. A deserter from this troop fell in with Lord Soulis's company, and flying to him for protection, a long private conversation took place between them. At this period, one of the spies who had been left by that chief in quest of news, returned with a female tenant of St. Fillan's, whom he had seduced from her home. She told Lord Soulis all he wanted to know; informing him that a beautiful young lady, who could be no other than Lady Helen Mar, was concealed in that convent.
On this information he conversed a long time with the stranger from Cressingham's detachment. And determining on carrying off Helen immediately to Hermitage, that the distance of Teviotdale might render a rescue less probable, he laid his plan accordingly. "In consequence," continued the woman, "my husband and the stranger, the one habited as a Scottish and the other as an English knight (for my lord being ever on some wild prank, has always a chest of strange dresses with him), set out for St. Fillan's, taking with them the signet which your mother had sent with her letter to the earl her cousin. They hoped such a pledge of their truth would insure them credit. You know the tale they invented; and its success proves my lord to be no bad contriver."
ELEN listened with astonishment and grief to this too probable story of her step-mother's ill-judged tenderness or cruel treachery; and remembering the threats which had escaped that lady in their last conversation, she saw no reason to doubt what so clearly explained the before inexplicable seizure of her father, the betraying of Wallace, and her own present calamity.
"You do not answer me," rejoined the woman, "but if you think I don't say true, Lord Soulis himself will assure you of the fact."
"Alas, no!" returned Helen, profoundly sighing, "I believe it too well. I see the depth of the misery into which I am plunged. And yet," cried she, recollecting the imposition the men had put upon her; "yet, I shall not be wholly so, if my father lives, and was not in the extremity they told me of!"
"If that thought gives you comfort, retain it," returned the woman: "the whole story of the earl's illness was an invention, to bring you at so short notice from the protection of the prior."
"I thank thee, gracious Providence, for this comfort!" exclaimed Helen: "it inspires me with redoubled trust in thee."
Margery shook her head. "Ah, poor victim (thought she), how vain is thy devotion!" But she had not time to say so, for her husband and the deserter from Cressingham re-entered the cave. Helen, afraid that it was Soulis, started up. The stranger proceeded to lift her in his arms: she struggled, and in the violence of her action, struck his beaver: it opened, and discovered a pale and stern countenance, with a large scar across his jaw; this mark of contest, and the gloomy scowl of his eyes, made Helen rush towards the woman for protection. The man hastily closed his helmet, and speaking through the clasped steel, for the first time she heard his voice, which sounded hollow and decisive, he bade her prepare to accompany Lord Soulis in a journey to the south.
Helen looked at her shackled arms, and despairing of effecting her escape by any effort of her own, she thought that gaining time might be some advantage; and allowing the man to take her hand, while Macgregor supported her on the other side, they led her out of the cave. She observed the latter smile significantly at his wife. "Oh!" cried she, "to what am I betrayed! Unhand me–leave me!" Almost fainting with dread, she leaned against the arm of the stranger.
Thunder now pealed over her head, and lightning shot across the mountains. She looked up: "Merciful heaven!" cried she, in a voice of deep horror; "send down thy bolt on me!" At that moment Soulis, mounted on his steed, approached, and ordered her to be put into the litter. Incapable of contending with the numbers which surrounded her, she allowed them to execute their master's commands. Macgregor's wife was set on a pillion behind him; and Soulis giving the word, they all marched on at a rapid pace. In a few hours, having cleared the shady valleys of the Clyde, they entered the long and barren tracts of the Leadhill Moors.
A dismal hue overspread the country; the thunder yet roared in distant peals, and the lightning came down in such vast sheets, that the carriers were often obliged to set down their burden, and cover their eyes to regain their sight. A shrill wind pierced the slight covering of the litter, and blowing it aside, discovered at intervals the rough outlines of the distant hills visible through the mist; or the gleaming of some wandering water, as it glided away over the cheerless waste.
"All is desolation, like myself!" thought Helen; but neither the cold wind, nor the rain, now drifting into her vehicle, occasioned her any sensation. It is only when the mind is at ease, that the body is delicate: all within her was too expectant of mental horrors, to notice the casual inconveniences of season or situation.
The cavalcade with difficulty mounted the steps of a mountainous hill, where the storm raged so turbulently, that the men who carried the litter stopped, and told their lord, it would be impossible to proceed in the approaching darkness: they conjured him to look at the perpendicular rocks, rendered indistinct by the gathering mist; to observe the overwhelming gusts of the tempest; and then judge whether they dare venture with the litter on so dangerous a pathway, made slippery by descending rain!
To halt in such a spot seemed to Soulis as unsafe as to proceed. "We shall not be better off," answered he, "should we attempt to return: precipices lie on either side; and to stand still would be equally perilous: the torrents from the heights increase so rapidly, there is every chance of our being swept away, should we remain exposed to their stream."
Helen looked at these sublime cascades with a calm welcome, as they poured from the hills, and flung their spray upon the roof of her vehicle. She hailed her release in the death they menaced; and far from being intimidated at the prospect, cast a resigned and even wistful glance into the swelling lake beneath, under whose waves she expected soon to sleep.
On the remonstrance of their master, the men resumed their pace; and after a hard contention with the storm, they gained the summit of the west side of the mountain, and were descending its eastern brow, when the shades of night closed in upon them. Looking down into the black chaos, on the brink of which they must pass along, they once more protested they could not advance a foot, until the dawn should give them some security.
At this declaration, which Soulis saw could not now be disputed, he ordered the troop to halt under the shelter of a projecting rock. Its huge arch overhung the ledge that formed the road, while the deep gulf at his feet, by the roaring of its waters, proclaimed itself the receptacle of those cataracts which rush tremendous from the ever-streaming Pentland Hills.
Soulis dismounted. The men set down the litter and removed to a distance as he approached. He opened one of the curtains, and throwing himself beside the exhausted but watchful Helen, clasped his arms roughly about her, and exclaimed, "Sweet minion, I must pillow on your bosom till the morn awakes?" His brutal lips were again riveted to her cheek. Ten thousand strengths seemed then to heave him from her heart; and struggling with a power that amazed even herself, she threw him from her; and holding him off with her shackled arms, her shrieks again pierced the heavens.
"Scream thy soul away, poor fool!" exclaimed Soulis, seizing her fiercely in his arms; "for thou art now so surely mine, that Heaven itself cannot deprive me!"
At that moment her couch was shaken by a sudden shock, and in the next she was covered with the blood of Soulis. A stroke from an unseen arm had reached him, and starting on his feet, a fearful battle of swords took place over the prostrate Helen.
One of the men, out of the numbers who hastened to the assistance of their master, fell dead on her body; while the chief himself, sorely wounded, and breathing revenge and blasphemy, was forced off by the survivors. "Where do you carry me, villains?" cried he. "Separate me not from the vengeance I will yet hurl on that demon who has robbed me of my victim, or ye shall die a death more horrible than hell can inflict!" He raved; but more unheeded than the tempest. Terrified that the spirits of darkness were indeed their pursuers, in spite of his reiterated threats, the men carried him to a distant hollow in the rock, and laid him down, now insensible from loss of blood. One or two of the most desperate, returned to see what was become of Lady Helen; well aware that if they could regain her, their master would be satisfied: but, on the reverse, should she be lost, the whole troop knew their fate would be some merciless punishment.
Macgregor, and the deserter of Cressingham, were the first who reached the spot where the lady had been left: with horror they found the litter, but not herself. She was gone. But whether carried off by the mysterious arm which had felled their lord, or she had thrown herself into the foaming gulf beneath, they could not determine. They decided, however, the latter should be their report to Soulis; knowing that he would rather believe the object of his passions had perished, than that she had escaped his toils.
Almost stupefied with consternation, they returned to repeat this tale to their furious lord; who, on having his wounds stanched, had recovered from his swoon. On hearing that the beautiful creature he had so lately believed his own beyond the power of fate; that his property, as he called her, the devoted slave of his will, the mistress of his destiny, was lost to him for ever! swallowed up in the whelming wave! he became frantic. There was desperation in every word. He raved; tore up the earth like a wild beast; and, foaming at the mouth, dashed the wife of Macgregor from him, as she approached with a fresh balsam for his wounds. "Off, scum of a damned sex!" cried he. "Where is she, whom I intrusted to thy care?"
"My lord," answered the affrighted woman, "you know best. You terrified the poor young creature. You forced yourself into her litter, and can you wonder–"
"That I should force you to perdition! execrable witch," cried he, "that knew no better how to prepare a slave to receive her lord!" As he spoke, he struck her again; but it was with his gauntlet hand and the eyes of the unfortunate woman opened no more. The blow fell on her temple, and a motionless corpse lay before him.
"My wife!" cried the poor Macgregor, putting his trembling arms about her neck: "Oh, my lord, how have I deserved this? You have slain her!"
"Suppose I have!" returned the chief with a cold scorn; "she was old and ugly; and could you recover Helen, you should cull Hermitage, for a substitute for this prating beldam."
Macgregor made no reply, but feeling in his heart that he "who sows the wind, must reap the whirlwind;" that such were the rewards from villany, to its vile instruments; he could not but say to himself, "I have deserved it of my God, but not of thee!" and sobbing over the remains of his equally criminal wife, by the assistance of his comrades he removed her from the now hated presence of his lord.
EANWHILE, the Lady Helen, hardly rational from the horror and hope that
agitated her, extricated herself from the dead body; and in her
eagerness to escape, would certainly have fallen over the precipice, had
not the same gallant arm which had covered her persecutor with wounds,
caught her as she sprang from the litter. "Fear not, lady," exclaimed a
gentle voice; "you are under the protection of a Scottish knight."
There was a kindness in the sound, that seemed to proclaim the speaker to be of her own kindred; she felt as if suddenly rescued by a brother; and dropping her head on his bosom, a shower of grateful tears relieved her heart, and prevented her fainting. Aware that no time was to be lost, that the enemy might soon be on him again, he clasped her in his arms, and with the activity of a mountain deer, crossed two rushing streams; leaping from rock to rock, even under the foam of their flood; and then treading with a light and steady step, an alpine bridge of one single tree, which arched the cataract below, he reached the opposite side, where, spreading his plaid upon the rock, he laid the trembling Helen upon it. Then softly breathing his bugle, in a moment he was surrounded by a number of men, whose rough gratulations might have re-awakened the alarm of Helen, had she not still heard his voice. There was graciousness and balm-distilling sweetness in every tone; and she listened in calm expectation.
He directed the men to take their axes, and cut away, on their side of the fall, the tree which arched it. It was probable the villain he had just assailed, or his followers, might pursue him; and he thought it prudent to demolish the bridge.
The men obeyed, and the warrior returned to his fair charge. It was raining fast; and fearful of farther exposing her to the inclemencies of the night, he proposed leading her to shelter. "There is a hermit's cell on the northern side of this mountain. I will conduct you thither in the morning, as to the securest asylum; but meanwhile we must seek a nearer refuge."
"Anywhere, sir, with honor my guide," answered Helen, timidly.
"You are safe with me, lady," returned he, "as in the arms of the Virgin. I am a man who can now have no joy in womankind, but when as a brother I protect them. Whoever you are, confide in me, and you shall not be betrayed."
Helen confidently gave him her hand, and strove to rise; but at the first attempt, the shackles piercing her ankles, she sunk again on the ground. The cold iron on her wrists touched the hand of her preserver. He now recollected his surprise on hearing the clank of chains, when carrying her over the bridge: "Who," inquired he, "could have done this unmanly deed?"
"The wretch from whom you rescued me–to prevent my escape from a captivity worse than death."
While she spoke, he wrenched open the manacles from her wrists and ankles, and threw them over the precipice. As she heard them dash into the torrent, an unutterable gratitude filled her heart; and again giving her hand to him to lead her forward, she said with earnestness, "O sir, if you have a wife or sister–should they ever fall into the like peril with mine; for in these terrific times, who is secure? may Heaven reward your bravery, by sending them such a preserver!"
The stranger sighed deeply: "Sweet lady," returned he, "I have no sister, no wife. But my kindred is nevertheless very numerous, and I thank thee for thy prayer." The hero sighed profoundly again, and lead her silently down the windings of the declivity. Having proceeded with caution, they descended into a little wooded dell, and soon approached the half-standing remains of what had once been a shepherd's hut.
"This," said the knight, as they entered, "was the habitation of a good old man, who fed his flock on these mountains; but a band of Southron soldiers forced his only daughter from him; and, plundering his little abode, drove him out upon the waste. He perished the same night, by grief, and the inclemencies of the weather. His son, a brave youth, was left for dead by his sister's ravishers; but I found him in this dreary solitude; and he told me the too general story of his wounds and his despair. Indeed, lady, when I heard your shrieks from the opposite side of the chasm, I thought they might proceed from this poor boy's sister, and I flew to restore them to each other."
Helen shuddered, as he related a tale so nearly resembling her own; and trembling with weakness, and horror of what might have been her fate had she not been rescued by this gallant stranger, she sunk exhausted upon a turf seat. The chief still held her hand. It was very cold, and he called to his men to seek fuel to make a fire. While his messengers were exploring the crannies of the rocks, for dried leaves and sticks, Helen, totally overcome, leaned almost motionless against the wall of the hut. Finding, by her shortening breath, that she was fainting, the knight took her in his arms, and supporting her on his breast, chafed her hands and her forehead. His efforts were vain: she seemed to have ceased to breathe; hardly a pulse moved her heart. Alarmed at such signs of death, he spoke to one of his men who remained in the hut.
The man answered his master's inquiry, by putting a flask into his hand. The knight poured some of its contents into her mouth. Her streaming locks wetted his cheek. "Poor lady!" said he, "she will perish in these forlorn regions, where neither warmth nor nourishment can be found."
To his glad welcome, several of his men soon after entered with a quantity of withered boughs, which they had found in the fissures of the rock at some distance. With these a fire was speedily kindled; and its blaze diffusing comfort through the chamber, he had the satisfaction of hearing a sigh from the breast of his charge. Her head still leaned on his bosom, when she opened her eyes. The light shone full on her face.
"Lady," said he, "I bless God you are revived." Her delicacy shrunk at the situation in which she found herself; and raising herself, though feebly, she thanked him, and requested a little water. It was given to her. She drank some; and would have met the fixed and compassionate gaze of the knight, had not weakness cast such a film before her eyes that she scarcely saw anything. Being still languid, she leaned her head on the turf seat. Her face was pale as marble, and her long hair, saturated with wet, by its darkness made her look of a more deadly hue.
"Death! how lovely canst thou be!" sighed the knight to himself–he even groaned. Helen started, and looked around her with alarm. "Fear not," said he, "I only dreaded your pale looks: but you revive, and will yet bless all that are dear to you. Suffer me, sweet lady, to drain the dangerous wet from these tresses?" He took hold of them as he spoke. She saw the water running from her hair over his hands, and allowing his kind request, he continued wiping her glossy locks with his scarf, till, exhausted by fatigue, she gradually sunk into a profound sleep.
Dawn had penetrated the ruined walls of the hut, before Lady Helen awoke. But when she did, she was refreshed; and opening her eyes–hardly conscious where she was, or whether all that floated in her memory were not the departing vapors of a frightful dream,–she turned her head, and fixed them upon the figure of the knight, who was seated near her. His noble air, and the pensive expression of his fine features, struck like a spell upon her gathering recollections; she at once remembered all she had suffered, all that she owed to him. She moved. Her preserver turned his eyes towards her: seeing she was awake, he rose from the side of the dying embers, he had sedulously kept alive during her slumber, and expressed his hopes that she felt restored. She returned him a grateful reply, in the affirmative; and he quitted her, to rouse his men for their journey to the hermit's cell.
When he re-entered, he found Helen braiding up the fine hair which had so lately been scattered by the elements. She would have risen at his approach, but he seated himself on a stone at her feet. "We shall be detained here a few minutes longer," said he: "I have ordered my men to make a litter of crossed branches, to bear you on their shoulders. Your delicate limbs would not be equal to the toil of descending these heights, to the glen of stones. The venerable man who inhabits there, will protect you, until he can summon your family, or friends, to receive his charge."
At these words, which Helen thought were meant to reprove her for not having revealed herself, she blushed; but fearful of breathing a name under the interdict of the English governors, and which had already spread devastation over all with whom it had been connected; fearful of involving her preserver's safety, by making him aware of the persecuted creature he had rescued, she paused for a moment; and then, with the color heightening on her cheeks, replied: "For your humanity, brave sir, shown this night to a friendless woman, I must be ever grateful; but not even to the hermit may I reveal my name. It is fraught with danger to every honest Scot who should know that he protects one who bears it; and therefore, least of all, noble stranger, would I breathe it to you." She averted her face, to conceal the emotions she could not subdue.
The knight looked at her intensely, and profoundly sighed. Half her unbraided locks lay upon her bosom, which now heaved with suppressed feelings; and the fast-falling tears, gliding through her long eyelashes, dropped upon his hand; he sighed again, and tore his eyes from her countenance. "I ask not, madam, to know what you think proper to conceal; but danger has no alarms for me, when, by incurring it, I serve those who need a protector."
A sudden thought flashed across her mind: might it not be possible that this tender guardian of her safety, this heroic profferer of service, was the noble Wallace? But the vain idea fled. He was pent up amidst the beleaguered defiles of Cartlane Craigs, sworn to extricate the helpless families of his followers, or to perish with them. This knight was accompanied by none but men; and his kind eyes shone in too serene a lustre, to be the mirrors of the disturbed soul of the suffering chief of Ellerslie. "Ah! then," murmured she to herself, "are there two men in Scotland, who will speak thus?" She looked up in his face. The plumes of his bonnet shaded his features: but she saw they were paler than on his entrance, and a strange expression of distraction agitated their before composed lines. His eyes were bent to the ground as he proceeded:–
"I am the servant of my fellow-creatures–command me and my few faithful followers; and if it be in the power of such small means to succor you or yours, I am ready to answer for their obedience. If the villain from whom I had the happiness to release you, be yet more deeply implicated in your sorrows, tell me how they can be relieved, and I will attempt it. I shall make no new enemies by the deed, for the Southrons and I are at eternal enmity."
Helen could not withdraw her eyes from his varying countenance, which, from underneath his dark plumes, seemed like a portentous cloud, at intervals to emit the rays of the cheering sun, or the lightning of threatening thunder. "Alas!" replied she, "ill should I repay such nobleness, were I to involve it in the calamities of my house. No, generous stranger, I must remain unknown. Leave me with the hermit; and from his cell I will send to some relation to take me thence."
"I urge you no more, gentle lady," replied the knight, rising: "were I at the head of an army, instead of a handful of men, I might then have a better argument for offering my services; but as it is, I feel my weakness, and seek to know no further."
Helen trembled with unaccountable emotion. "Were you at the head of an army, I might then dare to reveal the full weight of my anxieties; but Heaven has already been sufficiently gracious to me by your hands, in redeeming me from my cruelest enemy: and for the rest, I put my trust in the same overruling Providence." At this moment a man entered, and told the knight the vehicle was finished, the morning fine, and his men ready to march. He turned towards Helen: "May I conduct you to the rude carriage we have prepared?"
Helen gathered her mantle about her; and the knight, throwing his scarf over her head–it had no other covering–she gave him her hand, and he led her out of the hut to the side of the bier. It was overlaid with the men's plaids. The knight placed her on it; and the carriers raising it on their shoulders, her deliverer led the way, and they took their course down the mountain.
HEY proceeded in silence through the curvings of the dell till it
opened into a hazardous path along the top of a far-extending cliff,
which overhung and clasped in the western side of a deep loch. As they
mounted the pending wall of this immense ampitheatre, Helen watched the
sublime uprise of the king of light issuing from behind the opposite
citadel of rocks, and borne aloft on a throne of clouds that swam in
floating gold. The herbage on the cliffs glittered with liquid
emeralds, as his beams kissed their summits; and the lake beneath
sparkled like a sea of molten diamonds. All nature seemed to rejoice at
the presence of this magnificent emblem of the Most High. Helen's heart
swelled with devotion, and its sacred voice breathed from her lips.
"Such," thought she, "O sun, art thou! The resplendent image of the Giver of all Good, Thy cheering beams, like his all-cheering Spirit, pervade the soul, and drive thence the despondency of cold and darkness. But bright as thou art, how does the similitude fade before godlike man, the true image of his Maker! How far do his protecting arms extend over the desolate! How mighty is the power of his benevolence to dispense succor, to administer consolation!"
As she thus mused, her eye fell on the noble mien of the knight, who, with his spear in his hand, and wrapped in his dark mantle, of mingled greens, led the way, with a graceful but rapid step, along the shelving declivity. Turning suddenly to the left, he struck into a defile between two prodigious craggy mountains, whose brown cheeks, trickling with ten thousand rills, seemed to weep over the deep gloom of the valley beneath. Scattered fragments of rock from the cliffs above covered with their huge and almost impassable masses the surface of the ground. Not an herb was to be seen; all was black, barren, and terrific. On entering this horrid pass, Helen would have shuddered, had she not placed implicit confidence in her conductor.
As they advanced, the vale gradually narrowed, and at last shut them within an immense chasm, which seemed to have been cleft at its towering summit, to admit a few beams of light to the desert below. A dark river flowed along, amid which the bases of the mountains showed their union by the mingling of many a rugged cliff, projecting upwards in a variety of strange and hideous forms. The men who carried Helen, with some difficulty found a safe footing. However, after frequent rests, and unremitted caution, they at last extricated themselves from the most intricate path, and more lightly followed their chief into a less gloomy part of this chaos of nature. The knight stopped, and approaching the bier, told Helen they had arrived at the end of their journey.
"In the heart of that cliff," said he, "is the hermit's cell; a desolate shelter, but a safe one. Old age and poverty hold no temptations to the enemies of Scotland."
As he spoke, the venerable man, who had heard voices beneath, appeared on the rock; and while his tall and majestic figure, clad in gray, moved forward, and his silver beard flowed from his saintly countenance upon the air, he seemed the bard of Morven, issuing from his cave of shells to bid a hero's welcome to the young and warlike Oscar.
"Bless thee, my son," cried he, as he descended; "what good or evil accident hath returned thee so soon to these solitudes?"
The knight briefly related the circumstances of Helen's rescue, and that he had brought her to share his asylum.
The hermit took her by the hand, and graciously promised her every service in his power. He then preceded the knight, whose firmer arm supported her up the rock, to the outer apartment of the cell.
A sacred awe struck her as she entered this place, dedicated wholly to God. She bowed, and crossed herself. The hermit, observing her devotion, blessed her, and bade her welcome to the abode of peace.
"Here, daughter," said he, "has one son of persecuted Scotland found a refuge. There is nought alluring in these wilds to attract the spoiler. The green herb is all the food they afford, and the limpid water their best beverage."
"Ah!" returned Helen, with grateful animation, "would to Heaven that all who love the freedom of Scotland were now within this glen! The herb and the stream would be luxuries when tasted in liberty and hope. My father, his friend–" she stopped, recollecting that she had almost betrayed the secrecy she meant to maintain, and looking down, remained in confused silence. The knight gazed at her, and much wished to penetrate what she concealed; but delicacy forbade him to urge her again. He spoke not; but the hermit, ignorant of her reluctance to reveal her family, resumed:–
"I do not wonder, gentle lady, that you speak in terms which tell me even your tender sex feels the tyranny of Edward. Who in Scotland is exempt? The whole country groans beneath his oppressions, and the cruelty of his agents makes its rivulets run with blood. Six months ago I was abbot of Scone. Because I refused to betray my trust, and resign the archives of the kingdom lodged there, Edward, the rebel-anointed of the Lord! the profaner of the sanctuary! sent his emissaries to sack the convent, to tear the holy pillar of Jacob from its shrine, and to wrest from my grasp the records I refused to deliver. All was done as the usurper commanded. Most of my brethren were slain. Myself and the remainder were turned out upon the waste. We retired to the monastery of Cambus-kenneth; but there oppression found us. Cressingham, having seized on other religious houses, determined to swell his hoards with the plunder of that also. In the dead of night the attack was made. My brethren fled; I knew not whither to go; but determined to fly far from the tracts of our ravagers, I took my course over the hills, and finding the valley of stones fit for my purpose, for two months have lived alone in this wilderness."
"Unhappy Scotland!" ejaculated Helen. Her eyes had followed the chief, who, during this narrative, leaned thoughtfully against the entrance of the cave. His eyes were cast upwards with an expression that made her heart utter the exclamation which had escaped her. The knight turned and approached her: "You hear from the lips of my venerable friend," said he, "a direful story, happy then am I, gentle lady, that you and he have found a refuge, though a rough one. I must now tear myself from this tranquility, to seek scenes more befitting a younger son of the country he deplores."
Helen felt unable to answer. But the abbot spoke: "And am I not to see you again?"
"That is as Heaven wills," replied he; "but as it is unlikely on this side the grave, my best pledge of friendship is this lady. To you she may reveal what she has withheld from me; but in either case, she is secure in your goodness."
"Rely on my faith, my son; and may the Almighty's shield hang on your steps!"
The knight turned to Helen: "Farewell, sweet lady!" said he. She trembled at the words, and, hardly conscious of what she did, held out her hand to him. He took it, and drew it towards his lips, but checking himself, he only pressed it, while in a mournful voice he added, "In your prayer, sometimes remember the most desolate of men!"
A mist seemed to pass over the eyes of Lady Helen. She felt as if on the point of losing something most precious to her: "My prayers for my own preserver, and for my father's," cried she, in an agitated voice, "shall ever be mingled. And, if ever it be safe to remember me–should Heaven indeed arm the patriot's hand–then my father may be proud to know and to thank the brave deliverer of his child."
The knight paused, and looked with animation upon her: "Then your father is in arms, and against the tyrant! Tell me where, and you see before you a man who is ready to join him, and to lay down his life in the just cause!"
At this vehement declaration, Lady Helen's full heart overflowed, and she burst into tears. He drew towards her, and in a moderate voice continued: "My men, though few, are brave. They are devoted to their country, and are willing for her sake to follow me to victory or to death. As I am a knight, I am sworn to defend the cause of right; and where shall I so justly find it, as on the side of bleeding, wasted Scotland? How shall I so well pursue my career, as in the defence of her injured sons? Speak, gentle lady! trust me with your noble father's name, and he shall not have cause to blame the confidence you repose in a true though wandering Scot!"
"My father," replied Helen, weeping afresh, "is not where your generous services can reach him. Two brave chiefs, one a kinsman of my own, and the other his friend, are now colleagued to free him. If they fail, my whole house falls in blood! and to add another victim to the destiny which in that case will overwhelm me–the thought is beyond my strength." Faint with agitation, and the horrible images which reawakened her direst fears, she stopped; and then added in a suppressed voice, "Farewell!"
"Not till you hear me further," replied he. "I repeat, I have now a scanty number of followers; but I leave these mountains to gather more. Tell me, then, where I may join these chiefs you speak of. Give me a pledge that I come from you; and, whoever may be your father, as he is a true Scot, I will compass his release, or perish in the attempt."
"Alas! generous stranger," she cried, "to what would you persuade me? You know not the peril that you ask!"
"Nothing is perilous to me," replied he, with an heroic smile, "that is to serve my country. I have no interest, no joy but in her. Give me, then, the only happiness of which I am now capable, and send me to serve her, by freeing one of her defenders!"
Helen hesitated. The tumult of her mind dried her tears. She looked up, with all these inward agitations painted on her cheeks. His beaming eyes were full of patriotic ardor; and his fine countenance, composed into a heavenly calmness by the sublime sentiments which occupied his soul, made him appear to her not as a man, but as an angel from the armed host of heaven.
"Fear not, lady," said the hermit, "that you would plunge your deliverer into any extraordinary danger by involving him in what you might call rebellion against the usurper. He is already a proscribed man."
"Proscribed!" repeated she; "wretched indeed is my country when her noblest spirits are denied the right to live!–when every step they take to regain what has been torn from them, only involves them in deeper ruin!"
"No country is wretched, sweet lady," returned the knight, "till, by a dastardly acquiescence, it consents to its own slavery. Bonds and death are the utmost of our enemy's malice; the one is beyond his power to inflict, when a man is determined to die or to live free; and for the other, which of us will think that ruin, which leads to the blessed freedom of paradise?"
Helen looked on the chief as she used to look on her cousin, when expressions of virtuous enthusiasm burst from his lips; but now it was rather with the gaze of admiring awe than the exultation of one youthful mind sympathizing with another. "You would teach confidence to despair herself," returned she; "again I hope; for God does not create in vain! You shall know my father; but first, generous stranger, let me apprise you of every danger with which that knowledge is surrounded. He is hemmed in by enemies. Alas, how closely are they connected with him! Not the English only, but the most powerful of his own countrymen are leagued against him. They sold my father to captivity, and, perhaps, to death; and I, wretched I, was the price. To free him, the noblest of Scottish knights is now engaged; but such hosts impede him, that hope hardly dares hover over his tremendous path."
"Then," cried the stranger, "let my arm be second to his in the great achievement. My heart yearns to meet a brother in arms who feels for Scotland what I do; and with such a coadjutor, I dare promise your father liberty, and that the power of England shall be shaken."
Helen's heart beat violently at these words. "I would not defer the union of two such minds. Go, then, to the Cartlane Craigs. But, alas! how can I direct you?" cried she. "The passes are beset with English; and I know not whether at this moment the brave Wallace survives, to be again the deliverer of my father!"
Helen paused. The recollection of all that Wallace had suffered for the sake of her father, and of the mortal extremity in which Ker had left him, rose like a dreadful train of apparitions before her. A pale horror overspread her countenance; and lost in these remembrances, she did not remark the start, and rushing color of the knight, as she pronounced the name of Wallace.
"If Wallace ever had the happiness of serving any who belonged to you," returned the knight, "he has at least one source of pleasure in that remembrance. Tell me what he can further do? Only say, where is that father whom you say he once preserved, and I will hasten to yield my feeble aid to repeat the service!"
"Alas!" replied Helen, "I cannot but repeat my fears that the bravest of men no longer exists. Two days before I was betrayed into the hands of the traitor from whom you rescued me, a messenger from Cartlane Craigs informed my cousin that the gallant Wallace was surrounded; and if my father did not send forces to relieve him, he must inevitably perish. No forces could my father send; he was then made a prisoner by the English; his retainers shared the same fate; and none but my cousin escaped, to accompany the honest Scot back to his master. My cousin set forth with a few followers to join him–a few against thousands."
"They are in arms for their country, lady," returned the knight; "and a thousand invisible angels guard them; fear not for them! But for your father; name to me the place of his confinement, and as I have not the besiegers of Cartlane Craigs to encounter, I engage, with God's help, and the arms of my men (who never yet shrunk from sword or spear), to set the brave earl free!"
"How!" exclaimed Helen, remembering that she had not yet mentioned her father's rank, and gazing at him with astonishment; "Do you know his name–is the misfortune of my father already so far spread?"
"Rather say his virtue, lady," answered the knight; "no man who watches over the destiny of our devoted country can be ignorant of her friends, or of the sufferers who bear injury for her sake. I know that the Earl of Mar has made himself a generous sacrifice, but I am yet to learn the circumstances from you. Speak without reserve, that I may seek the accomplishment of my vow, and restore to Scotland its best friend!"
"Thou brother in heart to the generous Wallace!" exclaimed Lady Helen, "my voice is feeble to thank thee." The hermit, who had listened in silent interest, now, fearing the consequences of so much emotion, presented her with a cup of water and a little fruit, to refresh herself, before she satisfied the inquiries of the knight. She put the cup to her lips, to gratify the benevolence of her host, but her anxious spirit was too much occupied in the concerns dearest to her heart, to feel any wants of the body; and turning to the knight, she briefly related what had been the design of her father with regard to Sir William Wallace; how he had been seized at Bothwell, and sent with his family a prisoner to Dumbarton Castle.
"Proceed then thither," continued she. "If Heaven have yet spared the lives of Wallace, and my cousin Andrew Murray, you will meet them before its walls. Meanwhile I shall seek the protection of my father's sister, and in her castle near the Forth abide in safety. But, noble stranger, one bond I must lay upon you: should you come up with my cousin, do not discover that you have met with me. He is precipitate in resentment; and his hatred is so hot against Soulis, my betrayer, that should he know the outrage I have sustained he would, I fear, run himself and the general cause into danger by seeking immediate revenge."
The stranger readily passed his word to Helen that he would never mention her name to any of her family until she herself should give him leave. "But when your father is restored to his rights," continued he, "in his presence I hope to claim my acquaintance with his admirable daughter."
Helen blushed at this compliment;–it was not more than any man in his situation might have said, but it confused her; and hardly knowing what were her thoughts, she answered–"His personal freedom may be effected! and God grant such a reward to your prowess! But his other rights, what can recover them? His estates sequestrated, his vassals in bonds, all power of the Earl of Mar will be annihilated, and from some obscure refuge like this, must he utter his thanks to his daughter's preserver."
"Not so, lady," replied he; "the sword is now raised in Scotland, that cannot be laid down till it be broken or have conquered. All have suffered by Edward; the powerful banished into other countries, that their wealth might reward foreign mercenaries; the poor driven into the waste, that the meanest Southron might share the spoil! Where all have suffered, all must be ready to avenge; and when a whole people take up arms to regain their rights, what force can prevent restitution? God is with them!"
"So I felt," returned Helen, "while I had not yet seen the horrors of the contest. While my father commanded in Bothwell Castle, and was sending out auxiliaries to the patriotic chief, I too felt nothing but the inspiration which led them on, and saw nothing but the victory which must crown so just a cause. But now, when all whom my father commanded are slain or carried away by the enemy, when he is himself a prisoner, and awaiting the sentence of the tyrant he opposed; when the gallant Wallace, instead of being able to hasten to his rescue, is besieged by a numberless host, hope almost dies within me, and I fear that whoever may be fated to free Scotland, my beloved father, and those belonging to him, are first to be made a sacrifice."
She turned pale as she spoke, and the stranger resumed. "No, lady, if there be that virtue in Scotland which can alone deserve freedom, it will be achieved. I am an inconsiderable man, but relying on the God of Justice, I promise you your father's liberty! and let his freedom be a pledge to you for that of your country. I now go to rouse a few brave spirits to arms. Remember, the battle is not to the strong, nor victory with a multitude of hosts! The banner * of St. Andrew was once held from the heavens, over a little band of Scots, while they discomfited a thousand enemies–the same arm leads me on; and, if need be, I despair not to see it again, like the flaming pillar before the Israelites, consuming the enemies of liberty, even in the fulness of their might."
While he yet spoke, the hermit re-entered from the inner cell, supporting a youth on his arm. At sight of the knight, who held out his hand to him, he dropped on his knees and burst into tears. "Do you then leave me?" cried he; "am I not to serve my preserver?"
Helen rose in strange surprise; there was something in the feelings of the boy that was infectious; and while her own heart beat violently, she looked first on his emaciated figure, and then at the noble contour of the knight, "where every god had seemed to set his seal." His beaming eyes appeared the very fountains of consolation, his cheek was bright with generous emotions; and turning from the suppliant boy to Helen, "Rise," said he to the youth, "and behold in this lady the object of the service to which I appoint you. You will soon, I hope, be sufficiently recovered to attend upon her wishes as you would upon mine. Be her servant and her guard; and when we meet again, as she will then be under the protection of her father, if you do not prefer so gentle a service before the rougher one of war, I will resume you to myself."
The youth who had obeyed the knight and risen, bowed respectfully; and Helen, uttering some incoherent words of thanks, to hide her agitation turned away. The hermit exclaimed, "Again, my son, I beseech Heaven to bless thee!"
"And may its guardian care shield all here!" replied the knight. Helen looked up to bid him a last farewell–but he was gone. The hermit had left the cell with him, and the youth also had disappeared into the inner cave. Being left alone, she threw herself down before the altar, and giving way to a burst of tears, inwardly implored protection for that brave knight's life; and by his means to grant safety to Wallace, and freedom to her father!
As she prayed, her emotion subsided; and a holy confidence elevating her mind, she remained in an ecstacy of hope, till a solemn voice from behind her called her from this happy trance.
"Blessed are they which put their trust in God!"
She calmly rose, and perceived the hermit; who, on entering, had observed her devout position, and the spontaneous benediction broke from his lips. "Daughter," said he, leading her to a seat, "this hero will prevail; for the Power before whose altar you have just knelt, has declared, 'My might is with them who obey my laws, and put their trust in me!' You speak highly of the young and valiant Sir William Wallace, but I cannot conceive that he can be better formed for great and heroic deeds than this chief. Suppose them, then, to be equal; when they have met, with two such leaders, what may not a few determined Scots perform?"
Helen sympathized with the cheering prognostications of the hermit; and wishing to learn the name of this rival of a character she had regarded as unparalleled, she asked with a blush, by what title she must call the knight who had undertaken so hazardous an enterprise for her.
* At a time when Achaius, king of Scots, and Hungus, king of the Picts, were fiercely driven by Athelstan, king of Northumberland, into East Lothian, full of terrors of what the next morning might bring forth, Hungus fell into a sleep, and beheld a vision, which tradition tells, was verified the ensuing day by the appearance of the cross of St. Andrew held out to him from the heavens, and waving him to victory. Under this banner he conquered the Northumberland forces; and slaying their leader, the scene of the battle has henceforth been called Athelstanford.–(1809.)
KNOW not," returned the hermit; "I never saw your gallant deliverer before yesterday morning. Broken from my matins by a sudden noise, I beheld a deer rush down the precipice, and fall headlong. As he lay struggling amongst the stones at the entrance of my cave, I had just observed an arrow in his side, when a shout issued from the rocks above, and looking up, I beheld a young chieftain, with a bow in his hand, leaping from cliff to cliff, till springing from a high projection on the right, he lit at once at the head of the wounded deer.
"I emerged from the recess that concealed me, and addressed him with the benediction of the morning. His plaided followers immediately appeared, and with a stroke of their ready weapons slew the animal. The chief left them to dress it for their own refreshment; and on my invitation, entered the cell to share a hermit's fare.
"I told him who I was, and what had driven me to this seclusion. In return, he informed me of a design he had conceived, to stimulate the surrounding chiefs to some exertions for their country; but as he never mentioned his name, I concluded he wished it to remain unrevealed, and therefore I forbore to inquire it. I imparted to him my doubts of the possibility of any single individual being able to arouse the slumbering courage of our country; but his language soon filled me with other thoughts. The arguments he means to use are few and conclusive. They are these:–The perfidy of King Edward, who, deemed a prince of high honor, had been chosen to umpire in the cause of Bruce and Baliol. He accepted the task, in the character of a friend to Scotland; but no sooner was he advanced into the heart of our kingdom, and at the head of the large army he had treacherously introduced as a mere appendage of state, than he declared the act of judgement was his right as liege lord of the realm! This falsehood, which our records disproved at the outset, was not his only baseness; he bought the conscience of Baliol, and adjudged to him the throne. The recreant prince acknowledged him his master; and in that degrading ceremony of homage, he was followed by almost all the lowland Scottish lords. But this vile yielding did not purchase them peace; Edward demanded oppressive services from the king, and the castles of the nobility to be resigned to English governors. These requisitions being remonstrated against by a few of our boldest chiefs (amongst whom, your illustrious father, gentle lady, stood the most conspicuous), the tyrant repeated them with additional demands, and prepared to resent the appeal on the whole nation.
"Three months have hardly elapsed since the fatal battle of Dunbar, where, indignant at the accumulated outrages committed on their passive monarch, our irritated nobles at last rose, but too late, to assert their rights. Alas! one defeat drove them to despair. Baliol was taken, and themselves obliged to again swear fealty to their enemy. Then came the seizure of the treasures of our monasteries, the burning of the national records, the sequestration of our property, the banishment of our chiefs, the violation of our women, and the slavery or murder of the poor people yoked to the land. 'The storm of desolation, thus raging over our country; how,' cried the young warrior to me, 'can any of her sons shrink from the glory of again attempting her restoration?' He then informed me, that Earl de Warenne (whom Edward had left lord warden of Scotland) is taken ill, and retired to London, leaving Aymer de Valence to be his deputy. To this new tyrant, De Warenne has lately sent a host of mercenaries, to hold the south of Scotland in subjection; and to reinforce Cressingham and Ormsby, two noted plunderers, who command northwards, from Stirling to the shores of Sutherland.
"With these representations of the conduct of our oppressors, the brave knight demonstrated the facility with which invaders, drunk with power, and gorged with rapine, could be vanquished by a resolute and hardy people. The absence of Edward, who is now abroad, increases the probability of success. The knight's design is to infuse his own spirit into the bosoms of the chiefs in this part of the kingdom. By their assistance, to seize the fortresses in the Lowlands, and so form a chain of repulsion against the admission of fresh troops from England. Then, while other chiefs (to whom he means to apply) rise in the Highlands, the Southron garrisons there, being unsupported by supplies, must become an easy prey, and would yield men of consequence, to be exchanged for our countrymen, now prisoners in England. For the present, he wishes to be furnished with troops merely enough to take some castle, of power sufficient enough to give confidence to his friends. On his becoming master of such a place, it should be the signal for all to declare themselves; and, rising at once, overwhelm Edward's garrisons in every part of Scotland.
"This is the knight's plan; and for your sake, as well as for the cause, I hope the first fortress he gains may be that of Dumbarton. It has always been considered the key of the country."
"May heaven grant it, holy father," returned Helen; "and whoever this knight may be, I pray the blessed St. Andrew to guide his arms!"
"If I may venture to guess who he is," replied the hermit. "I would say, that noble brow was formed to some day wear a crown."
"What!" cried Helen, starting, "you think this knight is the royal Bruce?"
"I am at a loss what to think," replied the hermit; "he has a most princely air; and there is such an overflowing of soul towards his country, when he speaks of it, that–such love can spring from no other than the royal heart, created to foster and to bless it."
"But is he not too young?" inquired Helen. "I have heard my father say, that Bruce, lord of Annandale, the opponent of Baliol for the crown, was much his senior; and that his son, the Earl of Carrick, must be now fifty years of age. This knight, if I am any judge of looks, cannot be twenty-five."
"True," answered the hermit; "and yet he may be a Bruce. For it is neither of the two you have mentioned, that I mean; but the grandson of the one, and the son of the other. You may see by this silver beard, lady, that the winter of my life is far spent. The elder Bruce, Robert, lord of Annandale, was my contemporary; we were boys together, and educated at the same college in Icolmkill. He was brave, and passed his manhood in visiting different courts; at last, marrying a lady of the princely house of Clare, he took her to France, and confided his only son to be brought up under the renowned Saint Lewis; which young Robert took the cross while quite a youth; and carrying the banner of the holy king of France to the plains of Palestine, covered himself with glory. In storming a Saracen fortress, he rescued the person of Prince Edward of England. The horrible tyrant, who now tramples on all laws human and divine, was then in the bloom of youth, defending the cause of Christianity! Think on that, sweet lady, and marvel at the changing power of ambition!
"From that hour, a strict friendship subsisted between the two young crusaders; and when Edward mounted the the throne of England, it being then the ally of Scotland, the old Earl of Annandale, to please his brave son, took up his residence at the English court. When the male issue of our King David failed in the untimely death of Alexander III., then came the contention between Bruce and Baliol for the vacant crown. Our most venerable chiefs, the guardians of our laws, and the witnesses of the parliamentary settlement made on the house of Bruce during the reign of the late king, all declared for Lord Annandale. He was not only the male heir in propinquity of blood, but his experienced years and known virtues excited all true Scots to place him on the throne.
Meanwhile Edward, forgetting friendship to his friend, and fidelity to a faithful ally, was undermining the interest of Bruce, and the peace of the kingdom. Inferior rivals to our favorite prince were soon discountenanced; but by covert ways, with bribes and promises, the king of England raised such an opposition on the side of Baliol, as threatened a civil war. Secure in his right, and averse to plunge his country in blood, Bruce easily fell in with a proposal insidiously hinted to him by one of Edward's creatures,–'to require that monarch to be umpire between him and Baliol. Then it was that Edward, after soliciting the requisition as an honor to be conferred on him, declared it was his right as supreme lord of Scotland. The Earl of Annandale refused to acknowledge this assumption. Baliol bowed to it; and for such obedience, the unrighteous judge gave him the crown. Bruce absolutely refused to acknowledge the justice of this decision; and to avoid the power of the king who had betrayed his rights, and the jealousy of the other who had usurped them, he immediately left the scene of action, going over seas to join his son, who had been cajoled away to Paris. But, alas! he died on the road of a broken heart.
"When his son Robert (who was Earl of Carrick in right of his wife) returned to Britain, he, like his father, disdained to acknowledge Baliol as king. But being more incensed at his successful rival, than at the treachery of his false friend Edward, he believed his glossing speeches; and–by what infatuation I cannot tell–established his residence at that monarch's court. This forgetfulness of his royal blood, and of the independency of Scotland, has nearly obliterated him from every Scottish heart; for, when we look at Bruce the courtier, we cease to remember Bruce the descendant of St. David–Bruce the valiant knight of the Cross, who bled for true liberty before the walls of Jerusalem.
"His eldest son may be now about the age of the young knight who has just left us; and when I look on his royal port, and listen to the patriotic fervors of his soul, I cannot but think that the spirit of his noble grandsire has revived in his breast; and that, leaving his indolent father to the vassal luxuries of Edward's palace, he is come hither in secret, to arouse Scotland, and to assert his claim."
"It is very likely," rejoined Helen, deeply sighing; "and may Heaven reward his virtue with the crown of his ancestors!"
"To that end," replied the hermit, "shall my hands be lifted up in prayer day and night. May I, O gracious Power!" cried he, looking upwards, and pressing the cross to his breast, "live but to see that hero victorious, and Scotland free; and then 'let thy servant depart in peace, since mine eyes will have seen her salvation!' "
"Her salvation, father?" said Helen, timidly. "Is not that too sacred a word to apply to anything, however dear, that relates to earth?"
She blushed as she spoke; and fearful of having too daringly objected, looked down as she awaited his answer. The hermit observed her attentively; and, with a benign smile, replied, "Earth and heaven are the work of the Creator. He careth alike for angel and for man; and therefore nothing that he has made is too mean to be the object of his salvation. The word is comprehensive: in one sense it may signify our redemption from sin and death by the coming of the Lord of life into this world; and in another, it intimates the different means by which Providence decrees the ultimate happiness of men. Happiness can only be found in virtue; virtue cannot exist without liberty; and the seat of liberty is good laws! Hence when Scotland is again made free the bonds of the tyrant who corrupts her principles with temptations, or compels her to iniquity by threats, are broken. Again the honest peasant may cultivate his lands in security, the liberal hand feed the hungry, and industry spread smiling plenty through all ranks: every man to whom his Maker hath given talents, let them be one or five, may apply them to their use; and, by eating the bread of peaceful labor, rear families to virtuous action and the worship of God. The nobles, meanwhile, looking alone to the legislation of Heaven and to the laws of Scotland, which alike demand justice and mercy from all, will live the fathers of their country, teaching her brave sons that the only homage which does not debase a man, is that which he pays to virtue and to God.
"This it is to be free; this it is to be virtuous; this it is to be happy; this it is to live the life of righteousness, and to die in the hope of immortal glory. Say then, dear daughter, if, in praying for the liberty of Scotland, I said too much in calling it her salvation?
"Forgive me, father," cried Helen, overcome with shame at having questioned him.
"Forgive you what?" returned he. "I love the holy zeal which is jealous of allowing objects, dear even to your wishes, to encroach on the sanctuary of heaven. Be ever thus, meek child of the church, and no human idol will be able to usurp that part of your virgin heart which belongs to God."
Helen blushed. "My heart, reverend father," returned she, "has but one wish–the liberty of Scotland; and, with that, the safety of my father and his brave deliverers."
"Sir William Wallace I never have seen," rejoined the hermit; "but, when he was quite a youth, I heard of his graceful victories in the mimic war of the jousts at Berwick, when Edward first marched into this country under the mask of friendship. From what you have said, I do not doubt his being a worthy supporter of Bruce. However, dear daughter, as it is only a suspicion of mine that this knight is that young prince, for his safety, and for the sake of the cause, we must not let that name escape our lips; no, not even to your relations when you rejoin them, nor to the youth whom his humanity put under my protection. Till he reveals his own secret, for us to divulge it would be folly and dishonor."
Helen bowed acquiescence; and the hermit proceeded to inform her who the youth was whom the stranger had left to be her page.
In addition to what the knight had himself told her of Walter Hay, the unfortunate shepherd boy of the ruined hut, her venerable host narrated that the young warrior having quitted the holy cell after his first appearance there, soon returned with the wounded youth, whom he had found. He committed him to the care of the hermit, promising to visit him in his way from the south, and take the recovered Walter under his own protection. "He then left us," continued the old man, "but soon reappeared with you; showing, in the strongest language, that he who, in spite of every danger, succors the sons and daughters of violated Scotland, is proclaimed by the Spirit of Heaven to be her future deliverer and king."
As he ended speaking, he rose; and taking Helen by the hand, led her into an inner excavation of the rock, where a bed of dried leaves lay on the ground. "Here, gentle lady, said he, "I leave you to repose. In the evening I expect a lay brother from St. Oran's monastery, and he will be your messenger to the friends you may wish to rejoin. At present, may gentlest seraphs guard your slumbers!"
Helen, fatigued in spirit and in body, thanked the good hermit for his care; and bowing to his blessing, he left her to repose.
UIDED by Ker, Murray led his followers over the Lanark Hills, by the most untrodden paths; and hence avoided even the sight of a Southron soldier.
Cheered by so favorable a commencement of their expedition, they even felt no dismay when, at the gloom of the evening, Ker descried a body of armed men at a distance, sitting round a fire at the foot of a beetling rock which guards the western entrance to the Cartlane Craigs. Murray ordered his men to proceed under covert of the bushes; and then making the signal (concerted in case of such dilemma), they struck their iron crows into the interstices of the cliff, and catching at the branches which grew out of its precipitous side, with much exertion, but in perfect silence, at last gained the summit. That effected, they pursued their way with the same caution, till after a long march, and without encountering a human being, they reached the base of the huge rock which Wallace had made his fortress.
Ker, who expected to find it surrounded by an English army, was amazed at the deathlike solitude. "The place is deserted," cried he. "My brave friend, compelled by the extremity of his little garrison, has been obliged to surrender."
"We will ascend and see," was Murray's answer.
Ker led round the rock to the most accessible point; and, mounting by the projecting stones, with some difficulty gained the top. Silence pervaded every part; and the rugged cavities at the summit, which had formed the temporary quarters of his comrades, were lonely. On entering the recess where Wallace used to seek a few minutes' slumber, the moon, which shone full into the cave, discovered something bright lying in a distant corner. Ker hastily approached it, recollecting what Wallace had told him, that if during his absence, he could find means of escape, he would leave some weapon as a sign: a dagger, if necessity drove him to the south point, where he must fight his way through the valley; and an arrow, if he could effect it without observation, by the north, as he should then seek an asylum for his exhausted followers in the far-off wilds of Glenfinlass.
It was the iron head of an arrow which the moon had silvered and Ker, catching it up, with a gladdened countenance exclaimed, "He is safe! this calls us to Glenfinlass!" He then explained to Murray what had been the arrangement of Wallace respecting this sign, and without hesitation the young lord decided to follow him up that track.
Turning towards the northern part of the cliff, they came to a spot beneath which had been the strongest guard of the enemy, but now, like the rest, it was entirely abandoned. A narrow winding path led from this rocky platform to a fall of water, roaring and rushing by the mouth of a large cavern. After they had descended the main craig, they clambered over the top of this cave, and, entering upon another sweep of rugged hills, commenced a rapid march.
Traversing the lower part of Stirlingshire, they crossed Graham's Dyke; * and pursuing their course westward, left Stirling Castle far to the right. They ascended the Ochil Hills, and proceeding along the wooded heights which overhang the banks of Teith, forded that river, and entered at once into the broad valley which opened to them a distant view of Ben Lomond and Ben Ledi.
"There," exclaimed Ker, extending his hand towards the cloud-capped Ledi, "beneath the shadow of that mountain, we shall find the light of Scotland, our dear master in arms!"
At this intimation, the wearied Murrays–like seamen long harassed on a tempestuous ocean, at sight of a port,–uttered a shout of joy; and hastening forward with renovated strength, met a foaming river in their path. Despising all obstacles, they rushed in, and, buffeting the waves, soon found a firm footing on the opposite shore. The sun shone cheerily above their heads, illuminating the umbrageous sides of the mountains with a dewy splendor, while Ben Ledi, the standard of their hope, seemed to wave them on, as the white clouds streamed from its summit, or, rolling down its dark sides, floated in strange visionary shapes over the lakes beneath.
When the little troop halted on the shore of Loch Venachoir, the mists which had lingered on the brow of Ledi, slowly descended into the valley; and covering the mouth of the pass that led from the loch, seemed to shut them at once between the mountain and that world of waters. Ker, who had never been in these tracts before, wondered at their sublimity; and became alarmed, lest they should lose their way amid such infinite windings. But Murray, who remembered having once explored them with his father, led promptly forward, by a steep rough road in the side of the mountain. As they clung by the slippery rocks which overhung the lake, its mists dissolved into a heavy shower; and, by degrees clearing away, discovered the shining heads of Ben Lomond and Ben Chochan.
The party soon entered a precipitous labyrinth of craigs; and, passing onward, gradually descended amid pouring torrents, and gaping chasms overlaced with branching trees; till the augmented roar of waters intimated to Murray, they drew near the great fall of Glenfinlass. The river, though rushing on its course with the noise of thunder, was scarcely discerned through the thick forest which groaned over its waves. Here towered a host of stately pines; and there, the lofty beeches, birches, and mountain-oak, bending over the flood, interwove their giant arms; forming an arch so impenetrable, that while the sun brightened the tops of the mountains, all beneath lay in darkest midnight.
The awful entrance to this sublime valley struck the whole party with a feeling that made them pause. It seemed as if to these sacred solitudes, hidden in the very bosom of Scotland, no hostile foot dared intrude. Murray looked at Ker: "We go, my friend, to arouse the genius of our country! Here are the native fastnesses of Scotland; and from this pass, the spirit will issue, that is to bid her enslaved sons and daughters be free."
They entered; and with beating hearts pursued their way along the western border of Loch Lubnaig, till the royal heights of Craignacoheilg showed their summits, covered with heath and many an ivied turret. The forest, stretching far over the valley, lost its high trees in the shadows of the surrounding mountains, and told them they were now in the centre of Glenfinlass.
Ker put his bugle to his lips, and sounded the pibroch of Ellerslie. A thousand echoes returned the notes; and after a pause, which allowed their last response to die away, the air was answered by a horn from the heights of Craignacoheilg. An armed man then appeared on the rock, leaning forwards. Ker drew near, and taking off his bonnet, called aloud:–"Stephen! it is William Ker who speaks. I come with the Lord Andrew Murray of Bothwell, to the support of our commander Sir William Wallace."
At these words, Stephen placed his bugle to his mouth, and in a few minutes the rock was covered with the members of its little garrison. Women and children appeared, shouting with joy; and the men, descending the side next the glen, hastened to bid their comrade welcome. One advanced towards Murray, whom he instantly recognised to be Sir Roger Kirkpatrick of Torthorald. The chiefs saluted each other; and Lord Andrew pointed to his men : "I have brought," said he, "these few brave fellows to the aid of Sir William Wallace. They should have been more, but for new events of Southron outrage. Yet I am impatient to lead them to the presence of my uncle's preserver."
Kirkpatrick's answer disappointed the eager spirit of the young warrior; "I am sorry, brave Murray, that you have no better knight to receive you than myself. I and the gallant chief have not yet met; but I am in arms for him; and the hour of retribution for all our injuries, I trust, is at hand."
"But where is Sir William Wallace?" demanded Murray.
"Gone towards the Forth, to rouse that part of sleeping Scotland. If all he meet have my spirit, they will not require a second call. Now is the time to aim the blow; I shall ever give thanks to the accident which brought me the welcome news, that an arm is raised to strike it home."
As he spoke, he led Murray to the rampart-like cliffs which crown the summit of Craignacoheilg. In the midst stood a tower, which had once been a favorite hunting-lodge of the great King Fergus. There Kirkpatrick joyfully greeted his guest a second time: "This," said he, "is the far-famed lodge of the three kings: here did our lion, Fergus, attended by his royal allies, Durstus the Pict, and Dionethus, the Briton, spread his board during their huntings in Glenfinlass! And here, eight hundred years ago, did the same heroic prince form the plans which saved his kingdom from a foreign yoke! On the same spot we will lay ours; and in their completion, rescue Scotland from a tyranny more intolerable than that which menaced him. Yes, Murray; there is not a stone in this building that does not call aloud to us to draw the sword, and hold it unsheathed till our country be free."
"And by the ghost of that same Fergus, I swear, "exclaimed Murray, "that my honest claymore shall never shroud its head, while an invader be left alive in Scotland."
Kirkpatrick caught him in his arms: "Brave son of the noble Bothwell, thou art after mine own heart! The blow which the dastard Cressingham durst aim at a Scottish chief still smarts upon my cheek; and rivers of his countrymen's blood shall wash out the stain. After I had been persuaded by his serpent eloquence to swear fealty to Edward on the defeat at Dunbar, I vainly thought that Scotland had only changed a weak and unfortunate prince for a wise and victorious king; but when in the courts of Stirling, I heard Cressingham propose to the barons north of the dyke, that they should give their strongest castles into English hands; when I opposed the measure with all the indignation of a Scot who saw himself betrayed, he first tried to overturn my arguments; and finding that impossible, while I repeated them with redoubled force–he struck me!–Powers of earth and heaven, what was then the tempest of my soul!–I drew my sword–I would have laid him dead at my feet, had not my obsequious countrymen held my arm, and dragged me from the apartment.
"Covered with dishonor by a blow I could not avenge, I fled to my brother-in-law, Sir John Scott, of Loch Doine. With him I buried my injury from the world; but it lived in my heart;–it haunted me day and night, calling for revenge.
"In such an hour, how did I receive the tidings, that Sir William Wallace was in arms against the tyrant!–It was the voice of retribution, calling me to peace of mind! Even my bedridden kinsman partook my emotions; and with his zealous concurrence, I led a band of his hardiest clansmen to reinforce the brave men of Lanark on this rock.
"Two days I have now been here, awaiting in anxious impatience the arrival of Wallace. Yes! we will mingle our injured souls together! He has made one offering; I must make another! We shall set forth to Stirling; and there, in the very heart of his den, I will sacrifice the tiger Cressingham to the vengeance of our wrongs."
"But what, my brave friend," asked Murray, "are the forces you deem sufficient for so great an enterprise? How many fighting men may be counted of Wallace's own company, besides your own?"
"We have here about a hundred," replied Kirkpatrick, "including yours."
"How inadequate to storm so formidable a place as Stirling Castle!" returned Murray. "Having, indeed, passed the Rubicon, we must go forward, but resolution, not rashness, should be the principle of our actions. And my opinion is, that a few minor advantages obtained, our countrymen would flock to our standard, the enemy would be intimidated, and we should carry thousands, instead of hundreds, before the walls of Stirling. To attempt it now would invite defeat, and pluck upon us the ruin of our entire project."
"You are right, young man," cried Kirkpatrick; "my gray head, rendered impetuous by insult, did not pause on the blind temerity of my scheme. I would rather for years watch the opportunity of taking a signal revenge than not accomplish it at last. Oh! I would rather waste all my life in these solitary wilds and know that at the close of it I should see the blood of Cressingham on these hands, than live a prince and die unrevenged!"
Stephen and Ker now entered; the latter paid his respects to Sir Roger, and the former informed Murray that having disposed his present followers with those who had arrived before, he was come to lead their lord to some refreshment in the banqueting-room of the tower. "What?" cried Murray, full of glad amazement; "is it possible that my cousin's faithful band has reached its destination? None other belonging to Bothwell Castle had any chance of escaping its gaoler's hands."
Kirkpatrick interrupted Stephen's reply by saying that while their guests were at the board he would watch the arrival of certain expresses from two brave Drummonds, each of whom were to send him a hundred men. "So, my good Lord Andrew," cried he, striking him on the shoulder, "shall the snow-launch gather that is to fall on Edward to his destruction."
Murray heartily shared his zeal, and bidding him a short adieu, followed Stephen and Ker into the hall. A haunch of venison of Glenfinlass smoked on the board, and goblets of wine from the bounteous cellars of Sir John Scott brightened the hopes which glowed in every heart.
While the young chieftains were recruiting their exhausted strength, Stephen sat at the table to satisfy the anxiety of Murray to know how the detachment from Bothwell had come to Craignacoheilg, and by what fortunate occurrence, or signal act of bravery Wallace could have escaped with his whole train from the foe, surrounding Cartlane Craigs.
"Heaven smiled on us!" replied Stephen. "The very evening of the day on which Ker left us there was a carousal in the English camp. We heard the sound of the song and of riot, and of many an insult cast upon our beseiged selves. But about an hour after sunset the noise sunk by degrees–a no insufficient hint that the revellers, overcome by excess, had fallen asleep. At this very time, owing to the heat of the day, so great a vapor had been exhaled from the lake beneath that the whole of the northern side of the fortress cliff was covered with a mist so exceedingly thick we could not discern each other at a foot's distance. 'Now is the moment!' said our gallant leader; 'the enemy are stupefied with wine, the rock is clothed in a veil!–it is the shield of God that is held before us! under its shelter let us pass from their hands!'
"He called us together, and making the proper dispositions, commanded the children and women, on their lives, to keep silence. He then led us to the top of the northern cliff; it overhung an obscure cave which he knew opened at its extremity. By the assistance of a rope, held above by several men, our resolute chief (twisting it round one arm to steady him, and with the other catching by the projecting stones of the precipice) made his way down the rock, and was the first who descended. He stood at the bottom, enveloped in the cloud which shrouded the mountain, till all the men of the first division had cleared the height; he then marshalled them with their pikes towards the foe, in case of an alarm. But all remained quiet on that spot, although the sounds of voices, both in song and laughter, intimated that the utmost precaution was still necessary, as a wakeful and yet revelling part of the enemy were not far distant.
"Wallace re-ascended the rock half-way; and receiving the children, which their trembling mothers lowered into his arms, he handed them to the old men, who carried them safely through the bushes which obscured the cave's mouth. The rest of our little garrison soon followed; then our sentinels, receiving the signal that all were safe, drew silently from their guard, and closed our march through the cavern.
"This effected, we blocked up its egressing mouth, that, should our escape be discovered, the enemy might not find the direct road we had taken.
"We pursued our course without stop or stay till we reached the hospitable valleys of Stirlingshire. There some kind shepherds gave the women and children temporary shelter; and Wallace, seeing that if anything were to be done for Scotland, he must swell his host, put the party under my guidance, giving me orders that when they were rested I should march them to Glenfinlass, here to await his return. Selecting ten men, with that small band he turned towards the Forth, hoping to meet some valiant friends in that part of the country ready to embrace her cause.
"He had hardly been an hour departed when Dugald observed a procession of monks descending the opposite mountain. They drew near and halted in the glen. A crowd of women from the neighboring hills had followed the train, and were now gathering round a bier which the monks set down. I know not by what happy fortune I came close to the leader of the procession, but he saw something in my old rough features that declared me an honest Scot. 'Friend,' whispered he, 'for charity conduct us to some safe place where we may withdraw this bier from the sacrilegious eye of curiosity.'
"I made no hesitation, but desired the train to follow me into a byre belonging to the good shepherd who was my host. On this motion the common people went away, and the monks entered the place.
"When the travellers threw up their hoods, which as mourners they had worn over their faces, I could not help exclaiming, 'Alas, for the glory of Scotland, that this goodly group of stout young men rather wore the helmet than the cowl!" 'How!' asked their principal (who did not appear to have seen thirty years), 'do we not pray for the glory of Scotland? Such is our weapon.' 'True,' replied I, 'but while Moses prayed Joshua fought. God gives the means of glory that they should be used.' 'But for what, old veteran,' said the monk, with a penetrating look, 'should we exchange our cowl for the helmet? knowest thou anything of the Joshua who would lead us to the field?' There was something in the young priest's eyes that seemed to contradict his pacific words; they flashed an impetuous fire. My reply was short: 'Are you a Scot?' 'I am, in soul and in arms.' 'Then knowest thou not the chief of Ellerslie?' As I spoke, for I stood close to the bier, I perceived the pall shake. The monk answered my last question with an exclamation–'You mean Sir William Wallace!"
"'Yes!' I replied. The bier shook more violently at these words, and, with my hair bristling from my head, I saw the pall hastily thrown off, and a beautiful youth, in a shroud, started from it, crying aloud, 'Then is our pilgrimage at an end!–Lead us to him!'
"The monk perceived my terror, and hastily exclaimed, 'Fear not! he is alive, and seeks Sir William Wallace. His pretended death was a stratagem to insure our passage through the English army; for we are soldiers, like yourself.' As he spoke, he opened his gray habit, and showed me the mailed tartans beneath."
"What, then," interrupted Murray, "these monks were my faithful clansmen?"
"The same," replied Stephen: "I assured them they might now resume their own characters; for all who inhabited the valley we were then in were true, though poor and aged Scots. The young had long been drafted by Edward's agents, to fight his battles abroad."
"'Ah!' interrupted the shrouded youth, 'are we a people that can die for the honor of this usurper, and are we ignorant how to do it for our country? Lead us, soldier of Wallace,' cried he, stepping resolutely on the ground, 'lead us to your brave master; and tell him that a few determined men are come to shed their blood for him and Scotland.'
"This astonishing youth (for he did not appear to be more than fifteen) stood before me in his robes of death, like the spirit of some bright-haired son of Fingal. I looked on him with admiration, and explaining our situation, told him whither Wallace was gone, and of our destination to await him in the forest of Glenfinlass.
"While your brave clansmen were refreshing themselves, we learnt from Kenneth, their conductor, that the troop left Bothwell under expectation of your soon following them. They had not proceeded far before their scouts perceived the outposts of the English, which surrounded Cartlane Craigs; and to avoid this danger, they took a circuitous path, in hopes of finding some unguarded entrance. They reached the convent of St. Columba, at the western side of the craigs. Kenneth knew the abbot; and entering it under covert of the night, obtained permission for his men to rest there. The youth, now their companion, was a student in the church. He had been sent thither by his mother, a pious lady, in the hope that, as he is of a very gentle nature, he would attach himself to the sacred tonsure. But courage often springs with most strength in the softest frames.
"The moment this youth discovered our errand, he tried every persuasive to prevail on the abbot to permit him to accompany us. But his entreaties were vain, till, wrought up to vehement anger, he threatened that if he were prevented joining Sir William Wallace, he would take the earliest opportunity to escape, and commit himself to the peril of the English pikes.
"Seeing him determined, the abbot granted his wish;–'and then it was,' said Kenneth, 'that the youth seemed inspired. It was no longer an enthusiastic boy we saw before us, but an angel, gifted with wisdom to direct and enterprise to lead us. It was he proposed disguising ourselves as a funeral procession; and while he painted his blooming countenance of a death-like paleness, and stretched himself on this bier, the abbot sent to the English army to request permission for a party of monks to cross the craigs to the cave of St. Columba, in Stirlingshire, whither they carried a dead brother to be entombed. Our young leader hoped we might thus find an opportunity to apprise Wallace we were friends, and ready to swell the ranks of his little armament.
"'On our entrance into the passes of the craigs,' continued Kenneth, 'the English captain there mentioned the fate of Bothwell, and the captivity of Lord Mar; and with very little courtesy to sons of the church, ordered the bier to be opened, to see whether it did really contain a corpse, or provisions for our besieged countrymen. We had certainly expected this investigation; else we might as well have wrapped the trunk of a tree in the shroud we carried as a human being. We knew that the superstitious hatred of the Southrons would not allow them to touch a Scottish corpse, and therefore we feared no detection from the eye's examination alone. This ceremony once over, we expected to have passed on without further notice; and in that case the youth would have left his pall, and performed the remainder of his journey in a similar disguise with the rest; but the strict watch of an English guard confined him wholly to the bier. In hopes of at last evading this vigilance, on pretence of a vow of the deceased that his bearers should perform a pilgrimage throughout the craigs, we traversed them in every direction; and, I make no doubt, would have finally wearied out our guard, and gained our point, had not the circumstance transpired of Wallace's escape
"'How he had effected it, his enemies could not guess. Not a man of the besiegers was missing from his post; and not an avenue appeared by which they could trace his flight: but gone he was and with him his whole train. On this disappointment the Southron captains retired to Glasgow, to their commander-in-chief, to give as good an account as they could of so disgraceful a termination of their siege. Dismayed at this intelligence, our peculiar guard hurried us into Stirlingshire, and left us at the other side of the mountain. But even then we were not free to release our charge, for, attracted by our procession, the country people followed us Into the valley. Yet had we not met with you, it was our design to throw off our disguises in the first safe place. and, divided into small bands, have severally sought Sir William Wallace.'"
"But where," demanded Murray, who had listened with delighted astonishment to this recital, "where is this admirable youth? Why, if Kenneth have learned I am arrived, does he not bring him to receive my thanks and friendship ?"
"It is my fault," returned Stephen, "that Kenneth will not approach you till your repast is over. I left him to see your followers properly refreshed. And for the youth, he seems timid of appearing before you. Even his name I cannot make known to you till he reveals it himself; none know him here by any other than that of Edwin. He has, however, granted to-morrow morning for the interview."
"I must submit to his determination," replied Murray; "but I am at a loss to guess why so brave a creature should hesitate to meet me. I can only suppose he dislikes the idea of resigning the troop he has so well conducted; and if so, I shall think it my duty to yield its command to him."
"Indeed he richly deserves it," returned Stephen; "for the very soul of Wallace seemed transfused into his breast, as he cheered us through our long march from the valley to Glenfinlass. He played with the children, heartened up the women; and when the men were weary, and lagged by the way, he sat him down on the nearest stones, and sang to us legends of our ancestors till every nerve was braced with warlike emulation, and starting up, we proceeded onward with resolution, and even gaiety.
"When we arrived at Craignacoheilg, as the women were in great want, I suddenly recollected that I had an old friend in the neighborhood. When a boy, I had been the playfellow of Sir John Scott, of Loch Doine; and though I understood him to be now an invalid, I went to him. While I told my tale, his brother-in-law, Sir Roger Kirkpatrick, took fire at my relation, and declared his determination to accompany me to Craignacoheilg; and when he joined our band on the summit of this rock, he took the children in his arms, and while he held their hands in his, vehemently addressed their mothers, 'Let not these hands be baptized, * till they have been washed in the blood of our foe. Mercy belongs not to the enemy, now doomed to fall beneath their fathers' swords!'"
"It is, indeed, a deadly contest," rejoined Murray; "for evil has been the example of that foe. How many innocent bosoms have their steel pierced! How many helpless babes have their merciless hands dashed against the stones! Oh, ruthless war! even a soldier trembles to contemplate thy horrors."
"Only till he can avenge them!" cried a stern voice, entering the apartment. It was Kirkpatrick's, and he proceeded:–"When vengeance is in our grasp, tell me, brave Murray, who will then tremble? Dost thou not feel retribution in thine own hands? Dost thou not see the tyrant's blood at thy feet?" As he spoke he looked down, with a horrid exultation in his eyes; and, bursting into a more horrible laugh, struck his hand several times on his heart: "It glads me! it glads me! I shall see it–and this arm shall assist to pull him down."
"His power in Scotland may fall," returned Murray; "but Edward will be too careful of his life to come within reach of our steel."
"That may be," rejoined Kirkpatrick; "but my dagger shall yet drink the blood of his agents. Cressingham shall feel my foot upon his neck! Cressingham shall see that hand torn from its wrist, which durst violate the unsullied cheek of a true Scotsman. Murray, I cannot live unrevenged."
As he spoke, he quitted the apartment, and with a countenance of such tremendous fate, that the young warrior doubted it was human; it spoke not the noble resolves of patriotism, but the portentous malignity with which the great adversary of mankind determines the ruin of nations; it seemed to wither the grass on which he moved; and Murray almost thought that the clouds darkened, as the gloomy knight issued from the porch into the open air.
Kenneth Mackenzie joyfully entered the hall. Murray received him with a warm embrace; and, soon after, Stephen Ireland led the wearied chieftain to a bed of freshly-gathered heath, prepared for him in an upper chamber.
* The great wall of Severus, which runs between Abercorn and Kirkpatrick, being attacked by the Scots at the time the Romans abandoned Britain, a huge breach was made in it by Graham (or Greame), the uncle of the young king of Scots. By this achievement he conquered the whole of the country as far as the Cheviots, and the wall of Severus has since been called Graham's Dyke.–(1809.)
* It was a custom with Scottish chiefs, when any feud existed between their families, to leave the right hand of their children untouched by the holy water in baptism, as a sign that no law, even of Heaven, should prevent them taking revenge.
LEEP, the gentle sister of that awful power which shrouds man in its cold bosom, and bears him in still repose to the blissful wakefulness of eternal life;–she, sweet restorer! wraps him in her balmy embraces, and extracting from his wearied limbs the effects of every toil, safely relinquishes the refreshed slumberer at morn, to the newborn vigor that is her gift; to the gladsome breezes which call us forth to labor and enjoyment.
Such was the rest of the youthful Murray, till the shrill notes of a hundred bugles piercing his ear, made him start. He listened; they sounded again. The morning had fully broke. He sprung from his couch, hurried on his armor, and snatching up his lance and target, issued from the tower. Several women were flying past the gate. On seeing him they exclaimed, "The Lord Wallace is arrived–his bugles have sounded–our husbands are returned!"
Murray followed their eager footsteps, and reached the edge of the rock just as the brave group were ascending. A stranger was also there, who, from his extreme youth and elegance, he judged must be the young protector of his clansmen; but he forebore to address him until they should be presented to each other by Wallace himself.
It was indeed the same. On hearing the first blast of the horn, the youthful chieftain had hastened from his bed of heath, and buckling on his brigandine, rushed to the rock; but at the sight of the noble figure which first gained the summit, the young hero fell back. An indescribable awe checked his steps, and be stood at a distance, while Kirkpatrick welcomed the chief, and introduced Lord Andrew Murray. Wallace received the latter with a glad smile; and taking him warmly by the hand, "Gallant Murray," said he, "with such assistance, I hope to reinstate your brave uncle in Bothwell Castle, and soon to cut a passage to even a mightier rescue! We must carry off Scotland from the tyrant's arms; or," added he, in a graver tone, "we shall only rivet her chains the closer."
"I am but a poor auxiliary," returned Murray; "my troop is a scanty one, for it is of my own gathering. It is not my father's nor my uncle's strength that I bring along with me. But there is one here," continued he, "who has preserved a party of men, sent by my cousin, Lady Helen Mar, almost double my numbers."
At this reference to the youthful warrior, Sir Roger Kirkpatrick discerned him at a distance, and hastened towards him, while Murray briefly related to Wallace the extraordinary conduct of this unknown. On being told that the chief waited to receive him, the youth hastened forward with a trepidation he never had felt before; but it was a trepidation that did not subtract from his own worth. It was the timidity of a noble heart, which believed it approached one of the most perfect among mortals; and while its anxious pulse beat to emulate such merit, a generous consciousness of measureless inferiority embarrassed him with a confusion so amiable, that Wallace, who perceived his extreme youth and emotion, opened his arms and embraced him. "Brave youth" cried he, "I trust that the Power which blesses our cause will enable me to return you, with many a well-earned glory, to the bosom of your family!"
Edwin was encouraged by the frank address of a hero whom ho expected to have found reserved, and wrapped in the deep glooms of the fate which had roused him to be a thunderbolt of Heaven; but when he saw a benign, though pale countenance, hail him with smiles, he made a strong effort to shake off the awe with which the name, and the dignity of figure and mien of Wallace had oppressed him; and with a mantling blush he replied:–"My family are worthy of your esteem; my father is brave; but my mother, fearing for me, her favorite son, prevailed on him to put me into a monastery. Dreading the power of the English, even there she allowed none but the abbot to know who I was. And as he chose to hide my name–and I have burst from my concealment without her knowledge–till I do something worthy of that name, and deserving her pardon, permit me, noble Wallace, to follow your footsteps by the simple appellation of Edwin."
"Noble boy," returned the chief, "your wish shall be respected. We urge you no further to reveal what such innate bravery must shortly proclaim in the most honorable manner."
The whole of the troop having ascended, while their wives, children, and friends were rejoicing in their embraces, Wallace asked some questions relative to Bothwell, and Murray briefly related the disasters which had happened there.
"My father," added he, "is still with the Lord of Loch-awe; and thither I sent to request him to despatch to the Cartlane Craigs all the followers he took with him into Argyleshire. But as things are, would it not be well to send a second messenger, to say that you have sought refuge in Glenfinlass?"
"Before he could arrive," returned Wallace, "I hope we shall be where Lord Bothwell's reinforcements may reach us by water. Our present object must be the Earl of Mar. He is the first Scottish earl who has hazarded his estates and life for Scotland; and as her best friend, his liberation must be our first enterprise. In my circuit through two or three eastern counties, a promising increase has been made to our little army. The Frasers of Oliver Castle have given me two hundred men; and the brave Sir Alexander Scrymgeour, whom I met in West Lothian, has not only brought fifty stout Scots to my command. but, as hereditary standard-bearer of the kingdom, has come himself to carry the royal banner of Scotland to glory or oblivion."
"To glory!" cried Murray, waving his sword; "O! not while a Scot survives, shall that blood-red lion * again lick the dust!"
"No," cried Kirkpatrick, his eyes flashing fire; "rather may every Scot and every Southron, fall in the struggle, and fill one grave! Let me," cried he, sternly grasping the hilt of his sword, and looking upwards, "let me, oh, Saviour of mankind, live but to see the Forth and the Clyde, so often reddened with our blood, dye the eastern and the western oceans with the vital flood of these our foes; and when none is spared, then let me die in peace."
The eyes of Wallace glanced on the young Edwin, who stood gazing on Kirkpatrick; and turning on the knight with a powerful look of reprehension–"Check that prayer," cried he; "remember, my brave companion, what the Saviour of mankind was, and then think, whether he, who offered life to all the world, will listen to so damning an invocation. If we would be blessed in the contest, we must be merciful."
"To whom?" exclaimed Kirkpatrick; "to the robbers who tear from us our lands; to the ruffians who wrest from us our honors? But you are patient; you never received a blow!"
"Yes," cried Wallace, turning paler; "a heavy one,–on my heart."
"True," returned Kirkpatrick, "your wife fell under the steel of a Southron governor; and you slew him for it! You were revenged; your feelings were appeased."
"Not the death of fifty thousand governors," replied Wallace "could appease my feelings. Revenge were insufficient to satisfy the yearnings of my soul." For a moment he covered his agitated features with his hand, and then proceeded: "I slew Heselrigge, because he was a monster, under whom the earth groaned. My sorrow, deep, deep as it was–was but one of many, which his rapacity, and his nephew's licentiousness, had produced. Both fell beneath my arm; but I do not denounce the whole nation without reserve!–When the sword of war is drawn, all who resist must conquer or fall: but there are some noble English who abhor the tyranny they are obliged to exercise over us; and when they declare such remorse, shall they not find mercy at our hands? Surely, if not for humanity, for policy's sake, we ought to give quarter; for the exterminating sword, if not always victorious, incurs the ruin it threatens. I even hope, that by our righteous cause and our clemency, we shall not only gather our own people to our legions, but turn the hearts of the poor Welsh, and the misled Irish, whom the usurper has forced into his armies, and so confront him with troops of his own levying. Many of the English were too just to share in the subjugation of the country they had sworn to befriend. And their less honorable countrymen, when they see Scotsmen no longer consenting to their own degradation, may take shame to themselves for assisting to betray a confiding people."
"That may be," returned Kirkpatrick; "but surely you would not rank Aymer de Valence, who lords it over Dumbarton; and Cressingham, who acts the tyrant in Stirling: you would not rank them amongst these conscientious English?"
"No," replied Wallace; "the haughty oppression of the one, and the wanton cruelty of the other, have given Scotland too many wounds for me to hold a shield before them; meet them, and I leave them to your sword."
"And by heavens!" cried Kirkpatrick, gnashing his teeth with the fury of a tiger, "they shall know its point!"
Wallace then informed his friends he purposed marching next morning by daybreak towards Dumbarton Castle:–"When we make the attack," said he, "it must be in the night; for I propose seizing it by storm."
Murray and Kirkpatrick joyfully acquiesced. Edwin smiled an enraptured assent, and Wallace, with many a gracious look and speech, disengaged himself from the clinging embraces of the weaker part of the garrison, who, seeing in him the spring of their husbands' might, and the guard of their own safety, clung to him as to a presiding deity.
"You, my dear countrywomen," said he, "shall find a home for your aged parents, your children, and yourselves, with the venerable Sir John Scott of Loch Doine. You are to be conducted thither this evening; and there await in comfort the happy return of your husbands, whom Providence now leads forth to be the champions of your country."
Filled with enthusiasm, the women uttered a shout of triumph; and embracing their husbands, declared they were ready to resign them wholly to Heaven and Sir William Wallace.
Wallace left them with these tender relatives, from whom they were so soon to part, and retired with his chieftains to arrange the plan of his proposed attack. Delighted with the glory which seemed to waive him from the pinnacles of Dumbarton rock, Edwin listened in profound silence to all that was said, and then hastened to his quarters to prepare his armor for the ensuing morning.
* A lion gules, in a field or, is the arms of Scotland.–(1809.)
N the cool of the evening, while the young chieftain was thus employed, Kenneth entered to tell him that Sir William Wallace had called out his little army, to see its strength and numbers. Edwin's soul had become not more enamoured of the panoply of war than of the gracious smiles of his admired leader, and at this intelligence he threw his plaid over his brigandine, and placing a swan-plumed bonnet on his brows, hastened forth to meet his general.
The heights of Craignacoheilg echoed with thronging footsteps and a glittering light seemed issuing from her woods, as the rays of the descending sun glanced on the arms of her assembling warriors.
The thirty followers of Murray appeared just as the two hundred Frasers entered from an opening in the rocks. Blood mounted into his face as he compared his inferior numbers and recollected the obligation they were to repay, and the greater one he was now going to incur. However, he threw his standard worked by Helen on his shoulder, and turning to Wallace, "Behold," cried he, pointing to his men, "the poor man's mite! It is great, for it is my all!"
"Great indeed, brave Murray!" returned Wallace, "for it brings me a host in yourself."
"I will not disgrace my standard!" said he, lowering the banner-staff to Wallace. He started when he saw the flowing lock which he could not help recognising. "This is my betrothed," continued Murray in a blither tone; "I have sworn to take her for better for worse, and I pledge you my troth nothing but death shall part us!"
Wallace grasped his hand. "And I pledge you mine, that the head whence it grew shall be laid low, before I suffer so generous a defender to be separated, dead or alive, from this standard." His eyes glanced at the impresse: "Thou art right," continued he; "God doth indeed arm thee; and in the strength of a righteous cause, thou goest with the confidence of success, to embrace victory as a bride!"
"No, I am only the bridegroom's man!" replied Murray, gaily moving off; "I shall be content with a kiss or two from the handmaids, and leave the lady for my general."
"Happy, happy youth!" said Wallace to himself, as his eye pursued the agile footsteps of the young chieftain; "no conquering affection has yet thrown open thy heart; no deadly injury hath lacerated it with wounds incurable. Patriotism is a virgin passion in thy breast, and innocence and joy wait upon her!"
"We just muster five hundred men!" observed Ker to Wallace; "but they are all stout in heart as condition, and ready, even to-night, if you will it, to commence their march."
"No," replied Wallace ; "we must not overstrain the generous spirit. Let them rest to-night, and to-morrow's dawn shall light us through the forest."
Ker, who acted as henchman to Wallace, now returned to the ranks to give the word, and they all marched forward.
Sir Alexander Scrymgeour, with his golden standard, charged with the lion of Scotland, led the van. Wallace raised his bonnet from his head, as it drew near. Scrymgeour lowered the staff. Wallace threw up his outstretched hand at this action, but the knight not understanding him, he stepped forward. "Sir Alexander Scrymgeour," cried he, "that standard must not bow to me. It represents the royalty of Scotland, before which we fight for our liberties. If virtue yet dwell in the house of the valiant St. David, some of his offspring will hear of this day, and lead it forward to conquest and to a crown. Till such an hour, let not that standard bend to any man."
Wallace fell back as he spoke, and Scrymgeour, bowing his head in sign of acquiescence, marched on.
Sir Roger Kirkpatrick, at the head of his well-appointed Highlanders, next advanced. His blood-red banner streamed to the air, and as it bent to Wallace, he saw that the indignant knight had adopted the device of the hardy king Archaius, * but with a fiercer motto,–"Touch, and I pierce!"
"That man," thought Wallace, as he passed along, "carries a relentless sword in his very eye!"
The men of Loch Doine, a strong, tall and well armed body, marched on, and gave place to the advancing corps of Bothwell. The eye of Wallace felt as if turning from gloom and horror to the cheerful light of day, when it fell on the bright and ingenuous face of Murray. Kenneth with his troop followed, and the youthful Edwin, like Cupid in arms, closed the procession.
Being drawn up in line, their chief, fully satisfied, advanced towards them, and expressing his sentiments of the patriotism which brought them into the field, informed them of his intended march. He then turned to Stephen Ireland: "The sun has now set," said he, "and before dark, you must conduct the families of my worthy Lanarkmen to the protection of Sir John Scott. It is time that age, infancy, and female weakness, should cease their wanderings with us: to-night we bid them adieu, to meet them again, by the leading of the Lord of Hosts, in freedom and prosperity!"
As Wallace ceased, and was retiring from the ground, several old men, and young women with their babes in their arms, rushed from behind the ranks, and throwing themselves at his feet, caught hold of his hands and garments. "We go," said the venerable fathers, "to pray for your welfare; and sure we are, a crown will bless our country's benefactor, here or in heaven!"
"In heaven," replied Wallace, shaking the plumes of his bonnet over his eyes, to hide the moisture which suffused them; "I can have no right to any other crown."
"Yes," cried a hoary-headed shepherd, "you free your country from tyrants, and the people's hearts will proclaim their deliverer their sovereign!"
"May your rightful monarch, worthy patriarch," said Wallace, "whether a Bruce or a Baliol, meet with equal zeal from Scotland at large; and tyranny must then fall before courage and loyalty!"
The women wept as they clung to his hand; and the daughter of Ireland, holding up her child in her arms, presented it to him. "Look on my son!" cried she, with energy; "the first word he speaks shall be Wallace; the second, liberty. And every drop of milk he draws from my bosom, shall be turned into blood to nerve a conquering arm, or to flow for his country!"
At this speech all the women held up their children towards him. "Here," cried they, "we devote them to Heaven, and to our country! Adopt them, noble Wallace, to be thy followers in arms, when, perhaps, their fathers are laid low!"
Unable to speak, Wallace pressed their little faces separately to his lips, then returning them to their mothers, laid his hand on his heart, and answered in an agitated voice, "They are mine!–my weal shall be theirs,–my woe my own." As he spoke he hurried from the weeping group, and immerging amid the cliffs, hid himself from their tears and their blessings.
He threw himself on a shelving rock, whose fern-covered bosom projected over the winding waters of Loch Lubnaig, and having stilled his own anguished recollections, he turned his full eyes upon the lake beneath; and while he contemplated its serene surface, he sighed, and thought how tranquil was nature, till the rebellious passions of man, wearying of innocent joys, disturbed all by restlessness and invasion on the peace and happiness of others.
The mists of evening hung on the gigantic tops of Ben Ledi and Ben Vorlich; then sailing forward, by degrees obscured the whole of the mountains, leaving nothing for the eye to dwell on but the long silent expanse of the waters below.
"So," said he, "did I once believe myself for ever shut in from the world, by an obscurity that promised me happiness as well as seclusion! But the hours of Ellerslie are gone! No tender wife will now twine her faithful arms around my neck. No child of Marion's will ever be pressed to my fond bosom! Alas, the angel that sunk my country's wrongs to a dreamy forgetfulness in her arms, she was to be immolated, that I might awake! My wife, my unborn babe, they both must bleed for Scotland!–and the sacrifice shall not be yielded in vain. No, blessed God!" cried he, stretching his clasped hands towards heaven; "endow me with thine own Spirit, and I shall yet lead my countrymen to liberty and happiness! Let me counsel with thy wisdom; let me conquer with thine arm! and when all is finished, give me, O gracious Father! a quiet grave, beside my wife and child."
Tears, the first he had shed since the hour in which he last pressed his Marion to his heart, now flowed copiously from his eyes. The women, the children, had aroused all his recollections, but in so softened a train, that they melted his heart till he wept. "It is thy just tribute, Marion!" said he; "it was blood you shed for me, and shall I check these poor drops? Look on me, sweet saint best-beloved of my soul; O! hover near me in the day of battle, and thousands of thine and Scotland's enemies shall fall before thy husband's arm!"
The plaintive voice of the Highland pipe at this moment broke upon his ear. It was the farewell of the patriarch Lindsay, as he and his departing company descended the winding paths of Craignacoheilg. Wallace started on his feet. The separation had then taken place between his trusty followers and their families; and guessing the feelings of those brave men from what was passing in his own breast, he dried away the traces of his tears, and once more resuming the warrior's cheerful look, sought that part of the rock where the Lanarkmen were quartered.
As he drew near he saw some standing on the cliff, and others leaning over, to catch another glance of the departing group ere it was lost amid the shades of Glenfinlass.
"Are they quite gone?" asked Dugald. "Quite," answered a young man, who seemed to have got the most advantageous situation for a view. "Then," cried he, "may St. Andrew keep them till we meet again!"
"May a greater than St. Andrew hear thy prayer!" ejaculated Wallace. At the sound of this response from their chief they all turned round. "My brave companions," said he, "I come to repay this hour's pang by telling you that, in the attack of Dumbarton you shall have the honor of first mounting the walls. I shall be at your head, to sign each brave soldier with a patriot's seal of honor."
"To follow you, my lord," said Dugald, "is our duty."
"I grant it," replied the chief; "and as I am the leader in that duty, it is mine to dispense to every man his reward; to prove to all men that virtue alone is true nobility."
"Ah, dearest sir!" exclaimed Edwin, who had been assisting the women to carry their infants down the steep, and on reascending heard the latter part of this conversation; "deprive me not of the aim of my life! These warriors have had you long–have distinguished themselves in your eyes. Deprive me not, then, of the advantages of being near you; it will make me doubly brave. O, my dear commander, let me only carry to the grave the consciousness that, next to yourself, I was the first to mount the rock of Dumbarton, and you will make me noble indeed!"
Wallace looked at him with a smile of such graciousness, that the youth threw himself into his arms: "You will grant my boon?"
"I will, noble boy," said he; "act up to your sentiments, and. you shall be my brother."
"Call me by that name," cried Edwin, "and I will dare anything."
"Then be the first to follow me on the rock," said he, "and I will lead you to an honor, the highest in my gift: you shall unloose the chains of the earl of Mar! And ye," continued he, turning to his men, "ye shall not find your country slow to commemorate the duty of such sons. Being the first to strike the blow for her freedom, ye shall be the first she will distinguish. I now speak as her minister; and, as a badge to times immemorial, I bid you wear the Scottish lion on your shields."
A shout of proud joy issued from every heart; and Wallace, seeing that honor had dried the tears of regret, left them to repose. He sent Edwin to his rest; and himself, avoiding the other chieftains, retired to his own chamber in the tower.
* Archaius, king of Scotland, took for his device the Thistle and the Rewe, and for his motto, For my defence.
ROFOUND as was the rest of Wallace, yet the first clarion of the lark awakened him. The rosy dawn shone in at the window, and a fresh breeze wooed him with its inspiring breath to rise and meet it. But the impulse was in his own mind; he needed nothing outward to call him to action. Rising immediately, he put on his glittering hauberk; and issuing from the tower, raised his bugle to his lips, and blew so rousing a blast, that in an instant the whole rock was covered with soldiers.
Wallace placed his helmet on his head, and advanced towards them, just as Edwin had joined him, and Sir Roger Kirkpatrick appeared from the tower. "Blest be this morn!" cried the old knight. "My sword springs from its scabbard to meet it; and ere its good steel be sheathed again," continued he, shaking it sternly, "what deaths may dye its point!"
Wallace shuddered at the ferocity with which his colleague contemplated those features of war from which every humane soldier would seek to turn his thoughts, that he might encounter it with the steadiness of a man, and not the irresolution of a woman. To hail the field of blood with the fierceness of a hatred eager for the slaughter of its victim–to know any joy in combat but that each contest might render another less necessary–did not enter into the imagination of Wallace until he had heard and seen the infuriate Kirkpatrick. He talked of the coming battle with horrid rapture, and told the young Edwin he should that day see Loch Lomond red with English blood.
Offended at such savageness, but without answering him, Wallace drew towards Murray, and calling to Edwin, ordered him to march at his side. The youth seemed glad of the summons, and Wallace was pleased to observe it, as he thought that a longer stay with one who so grossly overcharged the feelings of honest patriotism, might breed disgust in his innocent mind against a cause which had so furious and therefore unjust a defender.
"Justice and mercy ever dwell together," said he to Edwin, who now drew near him; "for universal love is the parent of justice, as well as of mercy. But implacable Revenge! whence did she spring, but from the head of Satan himself?"
Though their cause appeared the same, never were two spirits more discordant than those of Wallace and Kirkpatrick. But Kirkpatrick did not so soon discover the dissimilarity; as it is easier for purity to descry its opposite, than for foulness to apprehend that anything can be purer than itself.
The forces being marshalled according to the preconcerted order, the three commanders, with Wallace at their head, led forward.
They passed through the forest of Glenfinlass; and morning and evening still found them threading its unsuspected solitudes in unmolested security; night, too, watched their onward march.
The sun had just risen as the little band of patriots, the hope of freedom, emerged upon the eastern bank of Loch Lomond. The bases of the mountains were yet covered with the dispersing mist of the morning, and hardly distinguishable from the blue waters of the lake, which lashed the shore. The newly-awakened sheep bleated from the hills, and the umbrageous herbage, dropping dew, seemed glittering with a thousand fairy gems.
"Where is the man who would not fight for such a country?" exclaimed Murray, as he stepped over a bridge of interwoven trees, which crossed one of the mountain-streams. "This land was not made for slaves. Look at these bulwarks of nature! Every mountain-head which forms this chain of hills is an impregnable rampart against invasion. If Baliol had possessed but half a heart, Edward might have returned even worse than Cæsar–without a cockle to decorate his helmet."
"Baliol has found the oblivion he incurred," returned Wallace; "his son, perhaps, may better deserve the sceptre of such a country. Let us cut the way, and he who merits the crown will soon appear to claim it."
"Then it will not be Edward Baliol!" rejoined Scrymgeour. "During the inconsistent reign of his father, I once carried a despatch to him from Scotland. He was then banqueting in all the luxuries of the English court; and such a voluptuary I never beheld! I left the scene of folly, only praying that so effeminate a prince might never disgrace the throne of our manly race of kings."
"If such be the tuition of our lords in the court of Edward–and wise is the policy for his own views!" observed Ker, "what can we expect from even the Bruce? They were ever a nobler race than the Baliol; but bad education and luxury will debase the most princely minds."
"I saw neither of the Bruce when I visited London," replied Scrymgeour; "the earl of Carrick was at his house in Cleveland, and Robert Bruce, his eldest son, with the English army in Guienne. But they bore a manly character, particularly young Robert, to whom the troubadours of Aquitaine have given the flattering appellation of Prince of Chivalry."
"It would be more to his honor," interrupted Murray. "if he compelled the English acknowledge him as Prince of Scotland. With so much bravery, how can he allow such a civit-cat as Edward Baliol to bear away the title, which is his by the double right of blood and virtue?"
"Perhaps," said Wallace, "the young lion only sleeps! The time may come, when both he and his father will rise from their lethargy, and throw themselves at once into the arms of Scotland. To stimulate the dormant patriotism of these two princes, by showing them a subject leading their people to liberty, is one great end of the victories I seek. None other than a brave king can bind the various interests of this distracted country into one; and therefore, for fair Freedom's sake, my heart turns towards the Bruces with most anxious hopes."
"For my part," cried Murray, "I have always thought the lady we will not woo we have no right to pretend to. If the Bruces will not be at the pains to snatch Scotland from drowning, I see no reason for making them a present of what will cost us many a wet jacket before we tug her from the waves. He that wins the day ought to wear the laurel: and so, once for all, I proclaim him king of good old Albin, * who will have the glory of driving her oppressors beyond her dykes."
Wallace did not hear this last sentiment of Murray's, as it was spoken in a lowered voice in the ear of Kirkpatrick. "I perfectly agree with you," was that knight's reply; "and in the true Roman style, may the death of every Southron now in Scotland, and as many more as fate chooses to yield us, be the preliminary games of his coronation!"
Wallace, who heard this turned to Kirkpatrick with a mild rebuke in his eye: "Balaam blessed, when he meant to curse!" said he; "but some curse, when they mean to bless. Such prayers are blasphemy. For, can we expect a blessing on our arms, when all our invocations are for vengeance rather then victory?"
"Blood for blood is only justice!" returned Murray; "and how can you, noble Wallace, as a Scot, and as a man, imply any mercy to the villains who stab us to heart?"
"I plead not for them," replied Wallace, "but for the poor wretches who follow their leaders, by force, to the field of Scotland: I would not inflict on them the cruelties we now resent. It is not to aggrieve, but to redress, that we carry arms. If we make not this distinction, we turn courage into a crime; and plant disgrace, instead of honor, upon the warrior's brow."
"I do not understand commiserating the wolves who have so long made havoc in our country," cried Kirkpatrick; "methinks such maidenly mercy is rather out of place."
Wallace turned to him with a smile: "I will answer you, my valiant friend, by adopting your own figure. It is that these Southron wolves may not confound us with themselves, that I wish to show in our conduct rather the generous ardor of the faithful guardian of the fold, than the rapacious fierceness which equals them with the beasts of the desert. As we are men and Scots, let the burden of our prayers be, the preservation of our country, not the slaughter of our enemies! The one is an ambition, with which angels may sympathize; the other, a horrible desire, which speaks the nature of fiends."
"In some cases this may be," replied Sir Roger, a little reconciled to the argument, "but not in mine. My injury yet burns upon my cheek; and as nothing but the life-blood of Cressingham can quench it, I will listen no more to your doctrine till I am revenged. That done, I shall not forget your lesson!"
"Generous Kirkpatrick!" exclaimed Wallace, "nothing that is really cruel can dwell with such manly candor. Say what you will, I can trust your heart after this moment."
They had crossed the river Ennerie, and were issuing from between its narrow ridge of hills, when Wallace, pointing to a stupendous rock which rose in solitary magnificence in the midst of a vast plain, exclaimed, "There is Dumbarton Castle!–that citadel holds the fetters of Scotland; and if we break them there, every minor link will easily give way."
The men uttered a shout of anticipated triumph at this sight; and proceeding, soon came in view of the fortifications which helmeted the rock. As they approached, they discovered that it had two summits, being in a manner cleft in twain; the one side rising in a pyramidal form; while the other, of more table-shape, sustained the ponderous buildings of the fortress.
It was dusk when the little army arrived in the rear of a close thicket which skirted the eastern dyke of the castle, and reached to a considerable length over the plain. On this spot Wallace rested his men; and while they placed themselves under its covert till the appointed time of attack, he perceived through an opening in the wood, the gleaming of soldiers' arms on the ramparts, and fires beginning to light on a lonely watch-tower, which crowned the pinnacle of the highest rock.
"Poor fools!" exclaimed Murray; "like the rest of their brethren of clay, they look abroad for evils, and prepare not for those which are even at their doors!"
"That beacon-fire," cried Scrymgeour, "shall light us to their chambers; and for once we thank them for their providence."
"That beacon-fire," whispered Edwin to Wallace, "shall light me to honor! To-night, by your agreement, I shall call you brother, or lie dead on the summit of those walls!"
"Edwin," said Wallace, "act as you say; and deserve not only to be called my brother, but to be the first banneret of freedom in arms!"
He then turned towards the lines; and giving his orders to each division, directed them to seek repose on the surrounding heather, till the now glowing moon should have sunk her tell-tale light in the waves.
* Albin was the ancient name of Scotland.
LL obeyed the voice of the commander, and retired to rest. But the eyes of Edwin could not close; his eager spirit was already on the walls of Dumbarton. His rapid mind anticipated the ascent of his general and his troop. But an imagination no less just than ardent, suggested the difficulties attending so small a force assailing so formidable a garrison, without some immediate knowledge of its relative situations. A sudden thought struck him. He would mount the rock alone; he would seek to ascertain the place of Lord Mar's confinement; that not one life in Wallace's faithful band might be lost in a vague search.
"Ah! my general," exclaimed he, "Edwin shall be the first to spring those ramparts; he shall tread that dangerous path alone; and when he has thus proved himself not unworthy of thy confidence, he will return to lead thee and thy soldiers to a sure victory, and himself to honor by thy side!"
This fervent apostrophe, breathed to the night alone, was no sooner uttered, than he stole from the thicket into which he had cast himself to repose. He looked towards the embattled cliff; its summit stood bright in the moonlight, but deep shadows lay beneath. "God be my speed!" cried he, and wrapping himself in his plaid, so mixed its dark hues with the weeds and herbage at the base of the rock, that he made its circuit without having attracted observation.
The south side seemed the most easy of ascent, and by that he began his daring attempt. Having gained the height, he clambered behind a buttress, the shadow of which cast the wall into such black obscurity, that he crept safely through one of its crenelles, and dropping gently inwards, alighted on his feet. Still keeping the shadowed side of the battlements, he proceeded cautiously along, and so stilly was his motion, that he passed undiscovered, even by the sentinels who guarded this quarter of the fortress.
He soon arrived at the open square before the citadel; it was yet occupied by groups of Southron officers, gaily walking to and fro under the light of the moon. In hopes of gaining some useful information from their discourse, he concealed himself behind a chest of arrows; and as they passed backwards and forwards, distinctly heard them jesting each other about divers fair dames of the country around. The conversation terminated in a debate whether or no the indifference which their governor De Valence manifested to the majestic beauties of the countess of Mar, were real or assumed. A thousand free remarks were made on the subject, and Edwin gathered sufficient from the discourse, to understand that the earl and countess were treated severely, and confined in a large square tower in the cleft of the rock.
Having learnt all that he could expect from these officers, he speeded under the friendly shadow, towards the other side of the citadel, and arrived just as the guard approached to relieve the sentinels of the northern postern. He laid himself close to the ground, and happily overheard the word of the night, as it was given to the new watch. This providential circumstances saved his life.
Finding no mode of regress from this place but by the postern at which the sentinel was stationed, or by attempting a passage through a small adjoining tower, the door of which stood open, he considered a moment, and then deciding for the tower, stole unobserved into it. Fortunately no person was there; but Edwin found it full of spare arms, with two or three vacant couches in different corners, where he supposed the officers on guard occasionally reposed: several watch-cloaks lay on the floor. He readily apprehended the use he might make of this circumstance, and throwing one of them over his own shoulders, climbed to a large embrasure in the wall, and forcing himself through it, dropped to a declivity on the other side, which shelved down to the cliff, wherein he now saw the square tower.
He had scarcely lit on firm ground, when a sentinel, followed by two others with presented pikes approached him, and demanded the word. "Montjoy! " was his reply. "Why not enter by the postern?" demanded another. The conversation of the officers had given him a hint, on which he formed his answer. "Love, my brave comrades," replied he, "seldom chooses even ways. I go on a message from a young ensign in the keep, to one of the Scottish damsels in yonder tower. Delay me, and his vengeance will fall upon us all."–"Good luck to you my lad!" was their answer, and with a lightened step, he hastened towards the tower.
Not deeming it safe to seek an interview with any of the earl's family, he crept along the base of the structure, and across the works, till he reached the high wall that blocks up egress from the north. He found this formidable curtain constructed of fragments of rock, and for the convenience of the guard, a sloping platform from within, led to the top of the wall. On the other side it was perpendicular; a solitary sentinel stood there; and how to pass him was Edwin's next device. To attack him would be desperate; being one of a chain of guards around the interior of the fortress his voice need only to be raised in the least to call a regiment to his assistance, and Edwin must be seized on the instant.
Aware of his danger, but not dismayed; the adventurous youth bethought him of his former excuse; and remembering a flask of spirits which Ireland had put into his pouch on leaving Glenfinlass, he affected to be intoxicated, and staggering up to the man, accosted him in the character of a servant of the garrison.
The sentinel did not doubt the appearance of the boy, and Edwin holding out the flask, said that a pretty girl in the great tower had not only given him a long draught of the same good liquor, but had filled his bottle, that he might not lack amusement, while her companion, one of Lady Mar's maids-in-waiting, was tying up a true lover's knot to send to his master in the garrison. The man believed Edwin's tale, and the more readily as he thrust the flask into his hand, and bade him drink. "Do not spare it," cried he; "the night is chilly, and I shall get more where that came from."
The unsuspecting Southron returned him a merry reply, and putting his flask to his head, soon drained its contents. They had the effect Edwin desired. The soldier became flustered, and impatient of his duty. Edwin perceived it, and yawning, complained of drowsiness. "I would go to the top of that wall, and sleep sweetly in the moonbeams," said he, "if any good-natured fellow would meanwhile wait for my pretty Scot."
The half-inebriated Southron liked no better sport, and regardless of duty he promised to draw nearer the tower, and bring from the fair messenger the expected token.
Having thus far gained his point, with an apparently staggering, but really agile step, Edwin ascended the wall. A leap from this dizzy height was his only way to rejoin Wallace. To retread his steps through the fortress in safety would hardly be possible; and besides such a mode of retreat would leave him uninformed on the second object of his enterprise–to know the most vulnerable side of the fortress.
He threw himself along the summit of the wall as if to sleep. He looked down and saw nothing but the blackness of space; for here the broad expanse of shadow rendered rocks and buildings of the same hue and level. But hope buoyed him in her arms; and turning his eyes towards the sentinel, he observed him to have arrived within a few paces of the square tower. This was Edwin's moment; grasping the projecting stone of the embattlement, and commending himself to Heaven, he threw himself from its summit, and fell a fearful depth to the cliffs beneath.
Meanwhile Wallace having seen his brave followers depart to their repose, reclined himself along a pile of moss-grown stones, which, in the days of the renowned Fingal, had covered the body of some valiant Morven chieftain. He fixed his wakeful eyes on the castle, now illumined in every part by the fulness of the moon's lustre, and considered which point would be most assailable by the scaling-ladders he had prepared. Every side seemed a precipice: the Leven, surrounding it on the north and the west; the Clyde, broad as a sea, on the south. The only place that seemed at all accessible, was the side next the dyke behind which he lay. Here the ascent to the castellated part of the rock, because most perpendicular, was the least guarded with outworks; and by this he determined to make the attempt, as soon as the setting moon should involve the garrison in darkness.
While he yet mused on what might be the momentous consequences of the succeeding midnight hours, he thought he heard a swift though cautious footstep. He raised himself, and laying his hand on his sword, saw a figure advancing towards him.
"Who goes there?" demanded Wallace.
"A faithful Scot," was the reply.
Wallace recognised the voice of Edwin. "What has disturbed you? Why do you not take rest with the others?"
"That we may have the surer, to-morrow!" replied the youth: " I am just returned from the summit of yonder rock."
"How!" interrupted Wallace, "have you scaled it alone, and are returned in safety?"
Wallace caught him in his arms. "Intrepid, glorious boy! tell me for what purpose did you thus hazard your precious life?"
"I wished to learn its most pregnable part," replied Edwin, his young heart beating with triumph at these encomiums from his commander; "and particularly where the good earl is confined that we might make our attack directly to the point."
"And have you been successful?" demanded Wallace.
"I have," was his answer. "Lord Mar and his lady are kept in a square tower which stands in the cleft between the two summits of the rock. It is not only surrounded by embattled walls, which flank the ponderous buttresses of this huge dungeon, but the space on which it stands is bulwarked at each end by a stone curtain of fifteen feet high, guarded by turrets full of armed men."
"And yet by that side you suppose we must ascend?" said Wallace.
"Certainly; for if you attempt it on the west, we should have to scale the watch-tower cliff, and the ascent could only be gained in file. An auxiliary detachment, to attack in flank, might succeed there; but the passage being so narrow, would be too tedious for the whole party to arrive in time. Should we take the south, we must cut through the whole garrison before we could reach the earl. And on this side, the morass lies too near the foot of the rock to admit an approach without the greatest danger. But on the north, where I descended, by wading through part of the Leven, and climbing from cliff to cliff, I have every hope you may succeed."
Edwin recounted the particulars of his progress through the fortress; and by the minuteness of his topographical descriptions, enforced his arguments for the north to be the point assailed. Closing his narrative, he explained to the anxious inquiry of Wallace how he had escaped accident in a leap of so many feet. The wall was covered with ivy; he caught by its branches in his descent, and at last happily fell amongst a thick bed of furze. After this he clambered down the steep, and fording the Leven (there only knee-deep), now appeared before his general, elate in heart, and bright in valor.
"The intrepidity of this action," returned Wallace, glowing with admiration at so noble a daring in so young a creature, "merits that every confidence should be placed in the result of your observations. Your safe return is a pledge of our design being approved. And when we go in the strength of Heaven who can doubt the issue? This night, when the Lord of battles puts the fortress into our hands, before the whole of our little army you shall receive that knighthood you have so richly deserved. Such, my truly dear brother, my noble Edwin, shall be the reward of your virtues and your toil."
Wallace would now have sent him to repose himself; but animated by the success of his adventure, and exulting in the honor which was so soon to stamp a sign of this exploit upon him for ever, he told his leader that he felt no want of sleep, and would rather take on him the office of arousing the other captains to their stations, the moon, their preconcerted signal, being then approaching its rest.
IRKPATRICK, Murray, and Scrymgeour hastened to their commander; and in a few minutes all were under arms. Wallace briefly explained his altered plan of assault, and marshalling his men accordingly, led them in silence through the water, and along the beach, which lay between the rock and the Leven. Arriving at the base just as the moon set, they began to ascend. To do this in the dark redoubled the difficulty; but as Wallace had the place of every accessible stone accurately described to him by Edwin, he went confidently forward, followed by his Lanarkmen.
He and they, being the first to mount, fixed and held the tops of the scaling-ladders, while Kirkpatrick and Scrymgeour, with their men, gradually ascended, and gained the bottom of the wall. Here, planting themselves in the crannies of the rock, under the impenetrable darkness of the night (for the moon had not only set, but the stars were obscured by clouds), they awaited the signal for the final ascent.
Meanwhile, Edwin led Lord Andrew with his followers, and the Fraser men, round by the western side to mount the watch-tower rock, and seize the few soldiers who kept the beacon. As a signal of having succeeded, they were to smother the flame on the top of the tower, and thence descend towards the garrison, to meet Wallace before the prison of the earl of Mar.
While the men of Lanark, with their eyes fixed on the burning beacon, in deadly stillness watched the appointed signal for the attack, Wallace, by the aid of his dagger, which he struck into the firm soil that occupied the cracks in the rock, drew himself up almost parallel with the top of the great wall, which clasped the bases of the two hills. He listened; not a voice was to be heard in the garrison of all the legions he had so lately seen glittering on its battlements. It was an awful pause.
Now was the moment when Scotland was to make her first essay for freedom! Should it fail, ten thousand bolts of iron would be added to her chains! Should it succeed, liberty and happiness were the almost certain consequences.
He looked up, and fixing his eyes on the beacon-flame, thought he saw the figures of men pass before it–the next moment all was darkness. He sprang on the wall, and feeling by the touch of hands about his feet that his brave followers had already mounted their ladders, he grasped his sword firmly, and leaped down on the ground within. In that moment he struck against the sentinel, who was just passing, and by the violence of the shock struck him to the earth; but the man, as he fell, catching Wallace round the waist, dragged him after him, and with a vociferous cry, shouted Treason!
Several sentinels ran with levelled pikes to the spot, the adjacent turrets emptied themselves of their armed inhabitants, and all assaulted Wallace, just as he had extricated himself from the grasp of the prostrate soldier.
"Who are you?" demanded they.
"Your enemy;" and the speaker fell at his feet with one stroke of his sword.
"Alarm!–treason!" resounded from the rest, as they aimed their random strokes at the conquering chief. But he has now assisted by the vigorous arm of Ker, and of several Lanarkmen, who, having cleared the wall, were dealing about blows in the darkness, which filled the air with groans, and strewed the ground with the dying and the dead.
One or two Southrons, whose courage was not equal to their caution, fled to arouse the garrison, and just as the whole of Wallace's men leaped the wall and rallied to his support, the inner ballium gate burst open, and a legion of foes, bearing torches, issued to the contest. With horrible threatenings they came on, and by a rapid movement surrounded Wallace and his little company. But his soul brightened in danger, and his men, warmed with the same spirit, stood firm with fixed pikes, receiving, without injury, the assault. Their weapons being longer than their enemy's, the Southrons, not aware of the circumstance, rushed upon their points, incurring the death they meant to give. Seeing their consequent disorder, Wallace ordered the pikes to be dropped, and his men to charge, sword in hand. Terrible was now the havoc, for the desperate Scots, grappling each to his foe with a fatal hold, let not go till the piercing shriek, or the agonized groan, convinced him that death had seized its victim. Wallace fought in front, making a dreadful passage through the falling ranks, while the tremendous sweep of his sword, flashing in the intermitting light, warned the survivors where the avenging blade would next descend. A horrid vacuity was made in the lately-thronged spot; it seemed not the slaughter of a mortal arm, but as if the destroying angel himself were there, and with one blast of his desolating brand had laid all in ruin. The platform was cleared, and the fallen torches, some half extinguished, and others flaming on the ground by the sides of the dead, showed, in their uncertain gleams, a few terrified wretches seeking safety in flight. The same lurid rays, casting a transitory light on the iron gratings of the great tower, informed Wallace that the heat of the conflict had drawn him to the prison of the earl.
"We are now near the end of the night's work!" cried he "Let us press forward to give freedom to the earl of Mar!"
"Liberty and Lord Mar!" cried Kirkpatrick, rushing onwards. He was immediately followed by his own men, but not quick enough for his daring. The guard in the tower, hearing the outcry, issued from the flanking gates, and, surrounding him, took him prisoner
"If there be might in your arms," roared he with the voice of a lion, "men of Loch Doine, rescue your leader!"
They hurried forward, with yells of defiance; but the strength of the garrison, awakened by the flying wretches from the defeat, turned out all its power, and with De Valence at their head, pouring on Kirkpatrick's men, would have overpowered them had not Wallace and his sixty heroes, with desperate determination, cut a passage to them through the closing ranks.
Pikes struck against corslets, swords wrung on helmets, and the ponderous battle axe, falling with the weight of fate, cleft the uplifted target in twain. Blood spouted on every side, and the dripping hands of Kirkpatrick, as Wallace tore him from the enemy, proclaimed that he had bathed his vengeance in the stream. On being released, he shook his ensanguined arms, and burst into a horrid laugh. "The work speeds! Now through the heart of the governor!"
Even while he spoke Wallace lost him again from his side; and again, by the shouts of the Southrons, who cried, "No quarter for the rebel!" he learnt he must be retaken. That merciless cry was the death-bell of their own doom. It directed Wallace to the spot, and throwing himself and his brethren of Lanark into the midst of the band which held the prisoner, Kirkpatrick was again rescued. But thousands seemed now surrounding the chief himself. To do this generous deed, he had advanced further than he ought, and himself and his brave followers must have been slain had he not recoiled back, and covering their rear with the great tower, all who had the hardihood to approach, fell under the weight of the Scottish claymore.
Scrymgeour, at the head of the Loch Doine men, in vain attempted to reach this contending party; and fearful of losing the royal standard, he was turning to make a valiant retreat, when Murray and Edwin (having disengaged their followers from the precipices of the beacon rock) rushed into the fray, striking their shields, and uttering the inspiring slogen of "Wallace and freedom!" It was re-echoed by every Scot; those that were flying returned; they who sustained the conflict hailed the cry with braced sinews; and the terrible thunder of the word, pealing from rank to rank, struck a terror into De Valence's men, which made them pause. The extinction of the beacon made them still more aghast.
On that short moment turned the crisis of their fate. Wallace cut his way forward through the dismayed Southrons, who, hearing the reiterated shouts of the fresh reinforcement, knew not whether its strength might not be thousands instead of hundreds, and panic-struck they became an easy prey to their enemies. Surrounded, mixed with their assailants, they knew not friends from foes, and each individual being bent on flight, they indiscriminately cut to right and left, wounding as many of their own men as of the Scots, and finally, after slaughtering half their companions, some few escaped through the small posterns of the garrison leaving the inner ballia entirely in possession of the foe.
The whole of the field being cleared, Wallace ordered the tower to be forced. A strong guard was still within, and as the assailants drew near, every means were used to render their assaults abortive. As the Scots pressed to the main entrance, stones and heavy metals were thrown upon their heads; but not in the least intimidated, they stood beneath the iron shower, till Wallace ordered them to drive a large felled tree, which lay on the ground, against the hinges of the door; it burst open, and the whole party rushed into the hall.
A short, sanguinary, but decisive conflict took place. The haubert and plaid of Wallace were dyed from head to foot; his own brave blood, and the ferocious stream from his enemies, mingled in one horrid hue upon his garments.
"Wallace! Wallace!" cried the stentorian lungs of Kirkpatrick. In a moment Wallace was at his side, and found him wrestling with two men. The light of a single lamp, suspended from the rafters, fell direct upon the combatants. A dagger was pointed at the life of the old knight, but Wallace laid the holder of it dead across the body of his intended victim; and catching the other assailant by the throat, threw him prostrate to the ground.
"Spare me, for the honor of knighthood!" cried the conquered .
"For my honor you shall die!" cried Kirkpatrick. His sword was already at the heart of the Englishman. Wallace bet it back. "Kirkpatrick, he is my prisoner, and I give him life."
"You know not what you do," cried the old knight, struggling with Wallace to release his sword-arm. "This is De Valence!" "Quarter!" reiterated the panting and hard-pressed earl. "Noble Wallace, my life! For I am wounded."
"Sooner take my own!" cried the determined Kirkpatrick, fixing his foot on the neck of the prostrate man, and trying to wrench his hand from the grasp of his commander.
"Shame!" cried Wallace; "you must strike through me to kill any wounded man I hear cry for quarter! Release the earl, for your own honor."
"Our safety lies in his destruction!" cried Kirkpatrick, and, enraged at opposition, he thrust his commander (little expecting such an action) from off the body of the earl. De Valence seized his advantage, and catching Kirkpatrick by the limb that pressed on him, overthrew him; and by a sudden spring, turning quickly on Wallace, struck his dagger into his side. All this was done in an instant. Wallace did not fall, but staggering, with the weapon sticking in the wound, he was so surprised by the baseness of the deed, he could not give the alarm till its perpetrator had disappeared.
The flying earl took his course through a narrow passage between the works, and proceeding swiftly towards the south, issued safely at one of the outer ballium gates–that part of the castle being now solitary, all the men having been drawn from the walls to the contest within–and thence he made his escape in a fisher's boat across the Clyde.
Meanwhile Wallace, having recovered himself, just as the Scots brought in lighted torches from the lower apartments of the tower, saw Roger Kirkpatrick leaning sternly on his blood-dripping sword, and the young Edwin coming forward in garments too nearly the hue of his own. Andrew Murray stood already by his side. Wallace's hand was upon the hilt of the dagger which the ungrateful De Valence had left in his breast. "You are wounded! you are slain!" cried Murray, in a voice of consternation. Edwin stood motionless with horror.
"That dagger!" exclaimed Scrymgeour–
"Has done nothing," replied Wallace, "but let me a little more blood." As he spoke he drew it out, and thrusting the corner of his scarf into his bosom, stanched the wound.
"So is your mercy rewarded!" exclaimed Kirkpatrick.
"So am I true to a soldier's duty," returned Wallace, "though De Valence is a traitor to his!"
"You treated him as a man," replied Kirkpatrick, "but now you find him a treacherous fiend!"
"Your eagerness, my brave friend," returned Wallace, "has lost him as a prisoner. If not for humanity or honor, for policy's sake, we ought to have spared his life, and detained him an hostage for our own countrymen in England."
Kirkpatrick remembered how his violence had released the earl, and he looked down abashed. Wallace, perceiving it, continued." But let us not abuse our time discoursing on a coward. He is gone, the fortress is ours, and our first measure must be to guard it from surpise."
As he spoke, his eyes fell upon Edwin, who, having recovered from the shock of Murray's exclamation, had brought forward the surgeon of their little band. A few minutes bound up the wounds of their chief, even while beckoning the anxious boy towards him. "Brave youth," cried he, "you, at the imminent risk of your own life, explored these heights, that you might render our ascent more sure; you who have fought like a young lion in this unequal contest! here, in the face of all your valiant comrades, receive that knighthood which rather derives lustre from your virtues than gives additional consequence to your name."
With a bounding heart Edwin bent his knee, and Wallace giving him the hallowed accolade, * the young knight rose from his position with all the roses of his springing fame glowing in his countenance. Scrymgeour presented him the knightly girdle, which he unbraced from his own loins, and while the happy boy received the sword to which it was attached, he exclaimed, with animation, "While I follow the example before my eyes, I shall never draw this in an unjust cause, nor ever sheathe it in a just one."
"Go, then," returned Wallace, smiling his approval of this sentiment, "while work is to be done I will keep my knight to the toil; go, and with twenty men of Lanark, guard the wall by which we ascended,"
Edwin disappeared, and Wallace, having despatched detachments to occupy other parts of the garrison, took a torch in his hand and, turning to Murray, proposed seeking the earl of Mar. Lord Andrew was soon at the iron door which led from the hall to the principal stairs.
"We must have our friendly battering-ram here," cried he; " a close prisoner do they indeed keep my uncle when even the inner doors are bolted on him."
The men dragged the tree forward, and striking it against the iron, it burst open with the noise of thunder. Shrieks from within followed the sound. The women of Lady Mar, not knowing what to suppose during the uproar of the conflict, now, hearing the door forced, expected nothing less than that some new enemies were advancing; and, giving themselves up to despair, they flew into the room where the countess sat in equal though less clamorous terror.
At the shouts of the Scots, when they began the attack, the earl had started from his couch. "That is not peace!" said he; "there is some surprise!"
"Alas, from whom?" returned Lady Mar; "who would venture to attack a fortress like this, garrisoned with thousands?"
The cry was repeated.
"It is the slogan of Sir William Wallace!" cried he; "I shall be free! O, for a sword! Hear, hear!"
As the shouts redoubled, and mingled with the various clangors of battle, drew nearer the tower, the impatience of the earl could not be restrained. Hope and eagerness seemed to have dried up his wounds and new-strung every nerve, while unarmed as he was, he rushed from the apartment, and hurried down the stairs which led to the iron door. He found it so firmly fastened by bars and padlocks, he could not move it. Again he ascended to his terrified wife who, conscious how little obligation Wallace owed to her, perhaps dreaded even more to see her husband's hopes realized than to find herself yet more rigidly the prisoner of the haughty De Valence.
"Joanna!" cried he, "the arm of God is with us. My prayers are heard, Scotland will yet be free. Hear those groans–those shouts. Victory! victory!"
As he thus echoed the cry of triumph uttered by the Scots when bursting open the outer gate of the tower, the foundations of the building shook, and Lady Mar, almost insensible with terror, received the exhausted body of her husband into her arms; he fainted from the transport his weakened frame was unable to bear. Soon after this the stair-door was forced, and the panic-struck women ran shrieking into the room to their mistress.
The countess could not speak, but sat pale and motionless, supporting his head on her bosom. Guided by the noise, Lord Andrew flew into the room, and rushing towards his uncle, fell at his feet. "Liberty! Liberty!" was all he could say. His words pierced the ear of the earl like a voice from heaven, and looking up, without a word, he threw his arms round the neck of his nephew.
Tears relieved the contending feelings of the countess; and the women, recognising the young lord of Bothwell, retired into a distant corner, well assured they had now no cause for fear.
The earl rested but a moment on the panting breast of his nephew; when, gazing round, to seek the mighty leader of the band, he saw Wallace enter, with the step of security and triumph in his eyes.
"Ever my deliverer!" cried the venerable Mar, stretching forth his arms. The next instant he held Wallace to his breast; and remembering all that he had lost for his sake since they parted, a soldier's heart melted, and he burst into tears. "Wallace, my preserver; thou victim for Scotland, and for me; –or rather, thou chosen of Heaven! who, by the sacrifice of all thou didst hold dear on earth, art made a blessing to thy country!–receive my thanks, and my heart."
Wallace felt all in his soul, which the earl meant to imply; but recovering the calmed tone of his mind before he was released from the embrace of his friend; when he raised himself, and replied to the acknowledgments of the countess, it was with a serene, though glowing countenance.
She, when she had glanced from the eager entrance and action of her nephew, to the advancing hero, looked as Venus did when she beheld the god of war rise from a field of blood. She started at the appearance of Wallace; but it was not his garments dropping gore, nor the blood-stained falchion in his hand, that caused the new sensation; it was the figure breathing youth and manhood; it was the face, where every noble passion of the heart had stamped themselves on his perfect features; it was his air, where majesty and sweet entrancing grace mingled in manly union. They were all these, that struck at once upon the sight of Lady Mar, and made her exclaim within herself, "This is a wonder of man! This is the hero that is to humble Edward!–to bless,–whom?" was her thought. "Oh, no woman! Let him be a creature enshrined and holy, for no female heart to dare to love!"
This passed through the mind of the countess, in less time than it has been repeated; and when she saw him clasped in her husband's arms, she exclaimed to herself, "Helen, thou wert right; thy gratitude was prophetic of a matchless object; while I, wretch that I was, even whispered the wish to my traitress heart, while I gave information against my husband, that this man, the cause of all, might be secured or slain!"
Just as the last idea struck her, Wallace rose from the embrace of his venerable friend, and met the riveted eye of the countess. She stammered forth a few expressions of obligation; he attributed her confusion to the surprise of the moment, and replying to her respectfully, turned again to the earl.
The joy of the venerable chief was unbounded, when he found that a handful of Scots had put two thousand Southrons to flight, and gained entired possession of the castle. Wallace, having satisfied the anxious questions of his noble auditor, gladly perceived the morning light. He rose from his seat. "I shall take a temporary leave of you, my lord," said he to the earl: "I must now visit my brave comrades at their posts, and see the colors of Scotland planted on the citadel."
* Accolade, the three strokes of the sword given in knighting.
HEN Wallace withdrew, Lady Mar, who had detained Murray, whispered to him, while a blush stained her cheek, that she should like to be present at the planting of the standard. Lord Mar declared his willingness to accompany her to the spot, and added, "I can be supported thither by the arm of Andrew." Murray hesitated. "It will be impossible for my aunt to go; the hall below, and the ground before the tower, are covered with slain."
"Let them be cleared away" cried she; "for I cannot consent to be deprived of a spectacle so honorable to my country."
Murray regarded the pitiless indifference with which she gave this order with amazement. "To do that, madam," said he, "is beyond my power; the whole ceremony of the colors would be completed long before I could clear the earth of half its bleeding load. I will seek a passage for you by some other way."
Before the earl could make a remark, Murray had disappeared; and after exploring the lower part of the tower in unavailing search for a way, he met Sir Roger Kirkpatrick issuing from a small door, which, being in shadow, he had hitherto overlooked. It led through the ballium, to the platform before the citadel. Lord Andrew returned to his uncle and aunt, and informing them of this discovery, gave his arm to Lord Mar, while Kirkpatrick led forward the agitated countess. At this moment the sun rose behind the purple summit of Ben Lomond.
When they approached the citadel, Wallace and Sir Alexander Scrymgeour had just gained its summit. The standard of Edward was yet flying. Wallace looked at it for a moment; then laying his hand on the staff, "Down, thou red dragon," cried he, "and learn to bow before the Giver of all victory!" Even while speaking, he rent it from the roof; and casting it over the battlements, planted the Lion of Scotland in its stead.
As its vast evolvements floated on the air, the cry of triumph, the loud clarion of honest triumph, burst from every heart, horn, and trumpet blow. It was a shout that pierced the skies, and entered the soul of Wallace with a bliss which seemed a promise of immortality.
"O God!" cried he, still grasping the staff, and looking up to heaven; "we got not this in possession through our own might, but thy right hand and the light of thy countenance overthrew the enemy! Thine the conquest, thine the glory!"
"Thus we consecrate the day to thee, Power of Heaven!" rejoined Scrymgeour . "And let this standard be thine own; and whithersoever we bear it, may we ever find it as the ark of our God!"
Wallace, feeling as if no eye looked on them but that of Heaven, dropped on his knee; and rising again, took Sir Alexander by the hand: "My brave friend," said he, "we have here planted the tree of freedom in Scotland. Should I die in its defence, swear to bury me under its branches; swear that no enslaved ground shall cover my remains."
"I swear," cried Scrymgeour, laying his crossed hands upon the arm of Wallace; "I swear with a double vow; by the blood of my brave ancestors, whose valor gave me the name I bear; by the cross of St. Andrew; and by your valiant self, never to sheath my sword, while I have life in my body, until Scotland be entirely free!"
The colors fixed, Wallace and his brave colleague descended the tower; and perceiving the earl and countess, who sat on a stone bench at the end of the platform, approached them. The countess rose as the chiefs drew near. Lord Mar took his friend by the hand, with a gratulation in his eyes, that was unutterable: his lady spoke, hardly conscious of what she said; and Wallace, after a few minutes' discourse, proposed to the earl to retire with Lady Mar into the citadel, where she would be more suitably lodged than in their late prison. Lord Mar was obeying this movement, when suddenly stopping, he exclaimed–"But where is that wondrous boy?–your pilot over these perilous rocks?–let me give him a soldier's thanks!"
Happy at so grateful a demand, Wallace beckoned Edwin, who, just relieved from his guard, was standing at some distance. "Here," said he, "is my knight of fifteen! for last night he proved himself more worthy of his spurs than many a man who has received them from a king."
"He shall wear those of a king," rejoined the Lord Mar, unlocking from his feet a pair of golden spurs; "these were fastened on my heels by our great king Alexander, at the battle of Largs. I had intended them for my only son; but the first knight in the cause of rescued Scotland is the son of my heart and soul!"
As he spoke, he would have pressed the young hero to his breast; but Edwin, trembling with emotion, slid down upon his knees, and clasping the earl's hand, said in a hardly audible voice, "Receive, and pardon, the truant son of your sister Ruthven!"
"What!" exclaimed the veteran, "is it Edwin Ruthven that has brought me this weight of honor? Come to my arms, thou dearest child of my dearest Janet!"
The uncle and nephew were folded in each other's embrace. Lady Mar wept; and Wallace, unable to bear the remembrance which such a scene pressed upon his heart, turned away towards the battlements. Edwin murmured a short explanation in the ear of his uncle; and then rising from his arms, with his beautiful face glittering like an April day in tears, allowed his gay cousin Murray to buckle the royal spurs on his feet. The rite over, he kissed Lord Andrew's hand, in token of acknowledgment; and called on Sir William Wallace to bless the new honors conferred on his knight.
Wallace turned towards Edwin, with a smile which partook more of heaven than earth. "Have we not performed our mutual promises?" said he; "I brought you to the spot, where you were to reveal your name; and you have declared it to me by the voice of glory! Come, then, my brother, let us leave your uncle awhile to seek his repose."
As he spoke, he bowed to the countess; and Edwin joyfully receiving his arm, they walked together towards the eastern postern.
Agitated with the delightful surprise of thus meeting his favorite sister's son (whom he had never seen since his infancy), and exhausted by the variety of his late emotions, the earl readily acquiesced in a proposal for rest, and leaning on Lord Andrew, proceeded to the citadel.
The countess had other attractions: lingering at the side of the rough knight of Torthorald, she looked back; and when she saw the object of her gaze disappear through the gates, she sighed; and turning to her conductor, walked by him in silence, till they joined her husband in the hall of the keep. Murray led the way into the apartments lately occupied by De Valence. They were furnished with all the luxury of a Southron nobleman. Lady Mar cast her eyes around the splendid chamber, and seated herself on one of its tapestried couches. The earl, not marking whether it were silk or rushes, placed himself beside her. Murray drew a stool towards them, while Kirkpatrick, tired of his gallant duty, abruptly took his leave.
"My dear Andrew," said the earl, "in the midst of this proud rejoicing, there is yet a canker at my heart. Tell me, that when my beloved Helen disappeared in the tumult at Bothwell, she was under your protection?"
"She was," replied Murray; "and I thank the holy Saint Fillan, she is now in the sanctuary of his church."
Murray then recounted to his relieved uncle every event, from the moment of his withdrawing behind the arras, to that of his confiding the English soldier with the iron box, to the care of the prior. Lord Mar sighed heavily, when he spoke of that mysterious casket. "Whatever it contain," said he, "it has drawn after it much evil and much good. The domestic peace of Wallace was ruined by it; and the spirit which now restores Scotland to herself, was raised by his wrongs!"
"But tell us," added he, "do you think my daughter safe, so near a garrison of the enemy?"
"Surely, my lord," cried the countess, too well remembering the enthusiasm with which Helen had regarded even the unknown Wallace; "surely you would not bring that tender child into a scene like this! Rather send a messenger to convey her secretly to Thirlestan; at that distance she will be safe, and under the powerful protection of her grandfather."
The earl acquiesced in her opinion; and saying he would consult with Wallace about the securest mode of travel for his daughter, again turned to Lord Andrew, to learn further of their late proceedings. But the countess, still uneasy, once more interrupted him.
"Alas! my lord, what would you do? His generous zeal will offer to go in person for your daughter. We know not what dangers he might then incur; and surely the champion of Scotland is not to be thrown into peril for any domestic concern! If you really feel the weight of the evils into which you have plunged Sir William Wallace, do not increase it, by even hinting to him the present subject of your anxiety."
"My aunt is an oracle!" resumed Murray. "Allow me to be the happy knight that is to bear the surrender of Dumbarton to my sweet cousin. Prevail on Wallace to remain in his garrison till I return; and then full tilt for the walls of old Stirling, and the downfall of Hughie Cressingham!"
Both the countess and the earl were pleased with this arrangement. The latter, by the persuasions of his nephew, retired into an inner chamber to repose; and the former desired Lord Andrew to inform Wallace that she should expect to be honored with his presence at noon, to partake of such fare as the garrison afforded.
On Murray's coming from the citadel, he learnt that Wallace was gone towards the great tower. He followed him thither; and on issuing from the postern which led to that part of the rock, saw the chief standing with his helmet off, in the midst of the slain.
"This is a sorry sight!" said he to Murray, as he approached; "but it shall not long lie thus exposed. I have just ordered that these sad wrecks of human strife may be lowered into the Clyde; its rushing stream will soon carry them to a quiet grave, beneath yon peaceful sea." His own dead, amounting to no more than fifteen, were to be buried at the foot of the rock, a prisoner in the castle having described steps in the cliff by which the solemnity should easily be performed.
"But why, my dear commander," cried Lord Andrew, "why do you take any thought about our enemies? Leave them where they are, and the eagles of our mountains will soon find them graves."
"For shame, Murray!" was the reply of Wallace; "they are dead, and our enemies no more. They are men like ourselves, and shall we deny them a place in that earth whence we all sprung? We war not with human nature; are we not rather the assertors of her rights?"
"I know," replied Lord Andrew, blushing, "that I am often the assertor of my own folly; and I do not know how you will forgive my inconsiderate impertinence."
"Because it was inconsiderate," replied Wallace. "Inhumanity is too stern a guest to live in such a breast as yours."
"If I ever give her quarters," replied Murray, "I should most woefully disgrace the companion she would meet there. Next to the honor of fair Scotland, my counsin Helen is the goddess of my idolatry; and she would forswear my love and kindred, could she believe me capable of feeling otherwise than in unison with Sir William Wallace."
Wallace looked towards him with a benign pleasure in his countenance:–"Your fair cousin does me honor."
"Ah! my noble friend," cried Murray, lowering his gay tone to one of softer expression; "if you knew all the goodness, all the nobleness that dwells in her gentle heart, you would indeed esteem her–you would love her as I do."
The blood fled from the cheek of Wallace. "Not as you do, Murray; I can no more love woman as you love her. Such scenes as these," cried he, turning to the mangled bodies which the men were now carrying away to the precipice of the Clyde, "have divorced woman's love from my heart. I am all my country's, or I am nothing."
"Nothing!" reiterated Murray, laying his hand upon that of Wallace, as it rested upon the hilt of the sword on which he leaned. "Is the friend of mankind, the champion of Scotland, the beloved of a thousand valuable hearts, nothing? Nay, art thou not the agent of Heaven, to be the scourge of a tyrant? Art thou not the deliverer of thy country?"
Wallace turned his bright eye upon Murray with an expression of mingled feelings. "May I be all this, my friend, and Wallace must yet be happy! But speak not to me of love and woman; tell me not of those endearing qualities I have prized too tenderly, and which are now buried to me for ever beneath the ashes of Ellerslie."
"Not under the ashes of Ellerslie," cried Murray, "sleep the remains of your lovely wife." Wallace's penetrating eye turned quick upon him. Murray continued: "My cousin's pitying soul stretched itself towards them; by her directions they were brought from your oratory in the rock, and deposited, with all holy rites, in the cemetery at Bothwell."
The glow that now animated the before chilled heart of Wallace, overspread his face. His eyes spoke volumes of gratitutde, his lips moved, but his feelings were too big for utterance, and, fervently pressing the hand of Murray, to conceal emotions ready to shake his manhood, he turned away, and walked towards the cliff.
When all the slain were lowered to their last beds, a young priest, who came in the company of Scrymgeour, gave the funeral benediction both to the departed in the waves, and those whom the shore had received. The rites over, Murray again drew near to Wallace, and delivered his aunt's message. "I shall obey her commands," returned he; "but first we must visit our wounded prisoners in the tower."
Above three hundred of them had been discovered amongst the dead.
Murray gladly obeyed the impulse of his leader's arm; and, followed by the chieftains returned from the late solemn duty, they entered the tower. Ireland welcomed Wallace with the intelligence that he hoped he had succored friends instead of foes, for that most of the prisoners were poor Welsh peasants, whom Edward had torn from their mountains to serve in his legions; and a few Irish, who in heat of blood, and eagerness for adventure, had enlisted in his ranks. "I have shown to them," continued Ireland, "what fools they are to injure themselves in us. I told the Welsh they were clinching their own chains by assisting to extend the dominion of their conqueror; and I have convinced the Irish they were forging fetters for themselves by lending their help to enslave their brother nation, the free-born Scots. They only require your presence, my lord, to forswear their former leaders, and to enlist under Scottish banners."
"Thou art an able orator, my good Stephen," returned Wallace; "and whatever promises thou hast made to honest men in the name of Scotland, we are ready to ratify them. Is it not so?" added he, turning to Kirkpatrick and Scrymgeour.
"All as you will," replied they in one voice. "Yes," added Kirkpatrick; "you were the first to rise for Scotland, and who but you has a right to command for her?"
Ireland threw open the door which led into the hall; and there, on the ground, on pallets of straw, lay most of the wounded Southrons. Some of their dimmed eyes had discerned their preserver, when he discovered them expiring on the rock; and on sight of him now, they uttered such a piercing cry of gratitude, that, surprised, he stood for a moment. In that moment, five or six of the poor wounded wretches crawled to his feet. "Our enemy! our preserver!" burst from their lips, as they kissed the edge of his plaid.
"Not to me, not to me!" exclaimed Wallace; "I am a soldier like yourselves. I have only acted a soldier's part; but I am a soldier of freedom, you of a tyrant, who seeks to enslave the world. This makes the difference between us; this lays you at my feet, when I would more willingly receive you to my arms as brothers in one generous cause."
"We are yours," was the answering exclamation of those who knelt, and of those who raised their feebler voices from their beds of straw. A few only remained silent. With many kind expressions of acceptance, Wallace disengaged himself from those who clung around him, and then moved toward the sick, who seemed too ill to speak. While repeating the same consolatory language to them, he particularly observed an old man who was lying between two young ones, and still kept a profound silence. His rough features were marked with many a scar, but there was a meek resignation in his face that powerfully struck Wallace. When the chief drew near, the veteran raised himself on his arm, and bowed his head with a respectful air. Wallace stopped. "You are an Englishman?"
"I am, sir, and I have no services to offer you. These two young men on each side of me are my sons. Their brother I lost last night in the conflict. To-day, by your mercy, not only my life is preserved, but my two remaining children also. Yet I am an Englishman, and I cannot be grateful at the expense of my allegiance."
"Nor would I require it of you," returned Wallace; "these brave Welsh and Irish were brought hither by the invader who subjugates their countries; they owe him no duty. But you are a free subject of England; he that is a tyrant over others, can only be a king to you; he must be the guardian of your laws, the defender of your liberties, or his sceptre falls. Having sworn to follow a sovereign so plighted, I am not severe enough to condemn you, because, misled by that phantom which he calls glory, you have suffered him to betray you into unjust conquests."
"Once I have been so misled," returned the old man, "but I never will again. Fifty years I have fought under the British standard in Normandy and in Palestine; and now in my old age, with four sons, I followed the armies of my sovereign into Scotland. My eldest I lost in the plains of Dunbar. My second fell last night; and my two youngest are now by my side. You have saved them and me. What can I do? Not, as your noble self says, forswear my country; but this I swear: and in the oath do you, my sons, join (as he spoke, they laid their crossed hands upon his, in token of assent), never to raise our swords against England; and, with like faith, never to lift an arm against Sir William Wallace, or the cause of injured Scotland!"
"To this we also subjoin!" cried several other men, who comprised the whole of the English prisoners.
"Noble people!" cried Wallace, "why have you not a king worthy of you?"
"And yet," observed Kirkpatrick, in a surly tone, "Heselrigge was one of these people!" Wallace turned upon him with a look of so tremendous a meaning, that, awed by an expression too mighty for him to comprehend, he fell back a few paces muttering curses; but on whom could not be heard.
"That man would arouse the tiger in our lion-hearted chief!" whispered Scrymgeour to Murray.
"Ay," returned Lord Andrew; "but the royal spirit keeps the beast in awe:–see how coweringly that bold brow now bows before it!"
Wallace marked the impression his glance had made, but where he had struck, being unwilling to pierce also, he dispelled the thunder from his countenance, and once more looking on Sir Roger with a frank serenity; "Come," said he, "my good knight; you must not be more tenacious for William Wallace than he is for himself! While he possesses such a zealous friend as Kirkpatrick of Torthorald, he need not now fear the arms of a thousand Heselrigges."
"No, nor of Edwards either," cried Kirkpatrick, once more looking boldly up, and shaking his broad claymore:–"My thistle has a point to sting all to the death who would pass between this arm and my leader's breast!"
"May Heaven long preserve the valiant Wallace!" was the prayer of every feeble voice, as he left the hall, to visit his own wounded, in an upper chamber. The interview was short and satisfactory. "Ah! sir," cried one of them, "I cannot tell how it is, but when I see you, I feel as if I beheld the very soul of my country, or its guardian angel, standing before me;–a something I cannot describe, but it fills me with courage and comfort!"
"You see an honest Scot standing before you, my good Duncan," replied Wallace; "and that is no mean personage; for it is one who knows no use of his life, but as it fulfils his duty to his country!"
"Oh, that the sound of that voice could penetrate to every ear in Scotland!" rejoined the soldier; "it would be more than the call of the trumpet, to bring them to the field!"
"And from the summit of this rock, many have already heard it; and more shall be so aroused!" cried Murray, returning from the door, to which one of his men had beckoned him: "here is a man, come to announce that Malcolm, Earl of Lennox, passing by the foot of this rock, saw the Scottish standard flying from its citadel; and, as overjoyed as amazed at the sight, he sends to request the confidence of being admitted."
"Let me bring him hither!" interrupted Kirkpatrick; "he is brave as the day, and will be a noble auxiliary."
"Every true Scot must be welcome to these walls," returned Wallace.
Kirkpatrick hastened from the tower to the northern side of the rock, at the foot of which stood the earl and his train. With all the pride of a freeman and a victor, Sir Roger descended the height. Lennox advanced to meet him. "What is it I see? Sir Roger Kirkpatrick master of this citadel, and our king's colors flying from its towers? Where is Earl de Valence? Where the English garrison?
"The English garrison," replied Kirkpatrick, "are now twelve hundred men beneath the waters of the Clyde. De Valence is fled; and this fortress, manned with a few hardy Scots, shall sink into yon waves, ere it again bear the English dragon on its walls."
"And you, noble knight," cried Lennox, "have achieved all this? You are the dawn to a blessed day for Scotland!"
"No," replied Kirkpatrick; "I am but a follower of the man who has struck the blow. Sir William Wallace of Ellerslie is our chief; and with the power of his virtues, he subdues not only friends, but enemies, to his command."
He then exultingly narrated the happy events of the last four-and-twenty hours. The earl listened with wonder and joy. "What!" cried he, "so noble a plan for Scotland, and I ignorant of it?–I, that have not waked day nor night, for many a month, without thinking, or dreaming, of some enterprise to free my country:–and behold it is achieved in a moment! I see the stroke, as a bolt from Heaven; and I pray Heaven, it may light the sacrifice throughout the nation!"
"Lead, me, worthy knight, lead me to your chief; for he shall be mine too; he shall command Malcolm Lennox and all his clan."
Kirkpatrick gladly turned to obey him; and they mounted the ascent together. Within the barbican gate stood Wallace, with Scrymgeour and Murray. The earl knew Scrymgeour well, having often seen him in the field as hereditary standard-bearer of the kingdom; of the persons of the others he was ignorant.
"There is Wallace!" exclaimed Kirkpatrick.
"Not one of those very young men?" interrogated the earl.
"Even so," was the answer of the knight; "but his is the youth of the brave son of Ammon; gray beards are glad to bow before his golden locks, for beneath them is wisdom."
As he spoke they entered the barbican; and Wallace (whom the penetrating eye of Lennox had already singled out for the chief) advanced to meet his guest.
"Earl," said he, "you are welcome to Dumbarton Castle."
"Bravest of my countrymen!" returned Lennox, clasping him in his arms, "receive a soldier's embrace; receive the gratitude of a loyal heart! accept my services, my arms, my men: my all I devote to Scotland and the great cause."
Wallace for a moment did not answer; but warmly straining the earl to his breast, said, as he released him, "Such support will give sinews to our power. A few months, and with the blessing of that Arm which has already mowed down the ranks which opposed us, we shall see Scotland at liberty."
"And may Heaven, brave Wallace!" exclaimed Lennox, "grant us thine arm to wield its scythe! But how have you accomplished this? How have your few overthrown this English host?"
"He strikes home, when right points his sword," replied Wallace; "the injuries of Scotland were my guide, and justice my companion. We feared nothing, for God was with us; we feared nothing, and in His might we conquered."
"And shall yet conquer!" cried Lennox, kindling with the enthusiasm that blazed from the eyes of Wallace. "I feel the strength of our cause; and from this hour, I devote myself to assert it, or to die."
"Not to die! my noble lord," said Murray; "we have yet many an eve to dance over the buried fetters of Scotland. And as a beginning of our jollities, I must remind our leader that my aunt's board awaits him."
Lord Lennox understood from this address it was the brave Murray who spoke to him; for he had heard sufficient from Sir Roger Kirkpatrick to explain how the countess of Mar and her patriot husband came within those walls.
The countess, having arrayed herself with all her powers to receive her deliverer, awaited the hour of his arrival with an emotion at her heart, which made it bound against her bosom, when she saw the object of her splendid toil advancing along the courtyard. All others were lost to her impatient eyes; and hastily rising from the window as the chiefs entered the porch, she crossed the room to meet them at the door.
The earl of Lennox stood amazed at sight of so much beauty and splendor in such a scene. Lady Mar had hardly attained her thirty-fifth year; but from the graces of her person, and the address with which she set forth all her charms, the enchanted gazer found it impossible to suppose her more than three or four and twenty. Thus happily formed by nature, and habited in a suit of velvet, overlaid with Cyprus-work of gold, blazing with jewels about her head, and her feet clad in silver-fretted sandals, Lenox thought she looked more like some triumphant queen, than a wife who had so lately shared captivity with an outlawed husband. * Murray started at such unexpected magnificence in his aunt. But Wallace scarcely observed it was anything unusual, and bowing to her, presented the earl of Lennox. She smiled; and saying a few words of welcome to the earl, gave her hand to Wallace to lead her back into the chamber.
Lord Mar had risen from his seat; and leaning on his sword (for his warlike arm refused any other staff), stood up on their entrance. At sight of Lord Lennox, he uttered an exclamation of glad surprise. Lennox embraced him. "I, too, am come to enlist under the banners of this young Leonidas."
"God armeth the patriot," was all the reply that Mar made, while the big tears rolled over his cheek, and he shook him by the hand.
"I have four hundred stout Lennox-men," continued the earl, "who by to-morrow's eve shall be ready to follow our leader to the very borders."
"Not so soon," interrupted the countess; "our deliverer needs repose."
"I thank your benevolence, Lady Mar," returned Wallace, "but the issue of last night, and the sight of Lord Lennox this day, with the promise of so great a support, are such aliments that–we must go forward."
"Ay, to be sure," joined Kirkpatrick; "Dumbarton was not taken during our sleep; and if we stay loitering here, the devil that holds Stirling Castle may follow the scent of De Valence; and so I lose my prey!"
"What!" cried the countess, "and is my lord to be left again to his enemies? Sir William Wallace, I should have thought–"
"Everything, madam," rejoined he, "that is demonstrative of my devotion to your venerable lord! But with a brave garrison, I hope you will consider him safe here, until a wider range of security be won, to enable you to retire to Braemar."
As the apostrophe to Wallace, in the latter part of the countess's speech, had been addressed to himself in rather a low voice, his reply was made in a similar tone, so that Lord Mar did not hear any part of the answer, except the concluding words. But then he exclaimed, "Nay, my ever-faithful Joanna, art thou making objections to keeping garrison here?"
"I confess," replied Wallace, "that an armed citadel is not the most pleasant abode for a lady; but at present, excepting perhaps the church, it is the safest; and I would not advise your lady to remove hence, until the plain be made as free as this mountain."
The sewer now announced the board in the hall; and the countess leading the way, reluctantly gave her hand to the earl of Lennox. Lord Mar leaned on the arm of Wallace who was followed by Edwin and the other chieftains.
* This was the style for state dress worn by noble ladies in the thirteenth century
URING the repast, the countess often fixed her unrestrained gaze on the manly yet youthful countenance of the heroic Wallace. His plumed helmet was now laid aside; and the heavy corslet unbuckled from his breast, disclosing the symmetry of his fine form, left its graceful movements to be displayed with advantage by the flexible folds of his simple tartan vest. Was it the formidable Wallace she looked on, bathed in the blood of Heselrigge, and breathing vengeance against the adherents of the tyrant Edward?–It was, then, the enemy of her kinsmen of the house of Cummin! It was the man for whom her husband had embraced so many dangers! It was the man whom she had denounced to one of those kinsmen, and whom she had betrayed to the hazard of an ignominious death! But where now was the fierce rebel–the ruiner of her peace–the outlaw whom she had wished in his grave?
The last idea was distraction. She could have fallen at his feet, and bathing them with her tears, have implored his pity and forgiveness. Even as the wish sprung in her mind, she asked herself–"Did he know all, could he pardon such a weight of injuries?" She cast her eyes with a wild expression upon his face. The mildness of heaven was there; and the peace, too, she might have thought, had not his eye carried a chastened sadness in its look, which told that something dire and sorrowful was buried deep within. It was a look that dissolved the soul which gazed on it. The countess felt her heart throb violently. At that moment Wallace addressed a few words to her, but she knew not what they were; her soul was in tumults, and a mist passed over her sight, which, for a moment, seemed to wrap all her senses in a trance.
The unconscious object of these emotions bowed to her inarticulate reply, supposing that the mingling voices of others had made him hear hers indistinctly.
Lady Mar found her situation so strange, and her agitation so inexplicable, that feeling it impossible to remain longer without giving way to a burst of tears, she rose from her seat, and forcing a smile with her curtsey to the company, left the room.
On gaining the upper apartment, she threw herself along the nearest couch, and striking her breast, exclaimed, "What is this within me? How does my soul seem to pour itself out to this man! Oh! how does it extend itself, as if it would absorb his, even at my eyes! Only twelve hours–hardly twelve hours, have I seen this William Wallace, and yet my very being is now lost in his!"
While thus speaking, she covered her face with her handkerchief, but no tears now started to be wiped away. The fire in her veins dried their source, and with burning blushes she rose from her seat. "Fatal, fatal hour! Why didst thou come here, too infatuating Wallace, to rob me of my peace? O! why did I ever look on that face?–or rather, blessed saints!" cried she, clasping her hands in wild passion, "why did I ever shackle this hand?–why did I ever render such a sacrifice necessary? Wallace is now free; had I been free?–But wretch, wretch, wretch;–I could tear out this betrayed heart?–I could trample on that of the infatuating husband that made me such a slave!" She gasped for breath, and again seating herself, reclined her beating temples against the couch.
She was now silent; but thoughts not less intense, not less fraught with self-reproach and anguish, occupied her mind. Should this god of her idolatry ever discover that it was her information which had sent Earl de Valence's men to surround him in the mountains; should he ever learn that at Bothwell she had betrayed that cause on which he had set his life, she felt that moment would be her last. For, now, to sate her eyes with gazing on him, to hear the sound of his voice, to receive his smiles, seemed to her a joy she could only surrender with her existence. What then was the prospect of so soon losing him, even to crown himself with honor, but to her a living death?
To defer his departure was all her study–all her hope; and fearful that his restless valor might urge him to accompany Murray in his intended convoy of Helen to the Tweed, she determined to persuade her nephew to set off without the knowledge of his general. She did not allow that it was the youthful beauty, and more lovely mind of her daughter-in-law, which she feared; even to herself she cloaked her alarm under the plausible excuse of care for the chieftain's safety. Composed by this mental arrangement, her disturbed features became smooth; and with even a sedate air, she received her lord and his brave friends, when they soon after entered the chamber.
But the object of her wishes did not appear. Wallace had taken Lord Lennox to view the dispositions of the fortress. Ill satisfied as she was with his prolonged absence, she did not fail to turn it to advantage; and while her lord and his friends were examining a draft of Scotland (which Wallace had sketched after she left the banqueting-room), she took Lord Andrew aside, to converse with him on the subject now nearest to her heart.
"It certainly belongs to me alone, her kinsmen and friend, to protect Helen to the Tweed, if there she must go," returned Murray: "but, my good lady, I cannot comprehend why I am to lead my fair cousin on such a pilgrimage. She is not afraid of heroes! you are safe in Dumbarton, and why not bring her here also?"
"Not for worlds!" exclaimed the countess, thrown off her guard. Murray looked at her with surprise. It recalled her to self-possession, and she resumed: "So lovely a creature in this castle would be a dangerous magnet. You must have known that it was the hope of obtaining her, which attracted the Lord Soulis, and Earl de Valence to Bothwell. The whole castle rung with the quarrel of these two lords upon her account, when you so fortunately effected her escape. Should it be known that she is here, the same fierce desire of obtaining her would give double excitement to De Valence to recover the place; and the consequences, who can answer for?"
By this argument, Murray was persuaded to relinquish the idea of conveying Helen to Dumbarton; but remembering what Wallace had said respecting the safety of a religious sanctuary, he advised that she should be left at St. Fillan's till the cause of Scotland might be more firmly established. "Send a messenger to inform her of the rescue of Dumbarton, and of your and my uncle's health," continued he, "and that will be sufficient to make her happy."
That she was not to be thrown in Wallace's way satisfied Lady Mar; and indifferent whether Helen's seclusion were under the Eildon tree, or the Holyrood, she approved Murray's decision. Relieved from apprehension, her face became again dressed in smiles, and, with a bounding step, she arose to welcome the re-entrance of Wallace with the Earl of Lennox.
Absorbed in thought, every charm she possessed was directed to the same point. She played finely on the lute and sung with all the grace of her country. What gentle heart was not to be affected by music? She determined it should be one of the spells by which she meant to attract Wallace. She took up one of the lutes (which with other musical instruments decorated the apartments of the luxurious De Valence), and touching it with exquisite delicacy, breathed the most pathetic air her memory could dictate.
"If on the heath she moved, her breast was whiter than the down of Cana;
If on the sea-beat shore, than the foam of the rolling ocean.
Her eyes were two stars of light. Her face was heaven's bow in showers;
Her dark hair flowed around it, like the streaming clouds.
Thou wert the dweller of souls, white-handed Strinadona."
Wallace rose from his chair, which had been placed near her. She had designed that these tender words of the bard of Morven should suggest to her hearer the observation of her own resembling beauties. But he saw in them only the lovely dweller of his own soul; and walking towards a window, stood there with his eyes fixed on the descending sun. "So hath set all my joys. So is life to me, a world without sun,–cold, cold and charmless!"
The countess vainly believed that some sensibility advantageous to her new passion had caused the agitation with which she saw him depart from her side, and, intoxicated with the idea, she ran through many a melodious descant, till, touching on the first strains of Thusa ha measg na reultan mor, she saw Wallace start from his contemplative position, and with a pale countenance leave the room. There was something in this abruptness which excited the alarm of the earl of Lennox, who had also been listening to the songs; he rose instantly, and overtaking the chief at the threshold, inquired what was the matter? "Nothing," answered Wallace, forcing a smile in which the agony of his mind was too truly imprinted, "but music displeases me." With the reply he disappeared. The excuse seemed strange but it was true; for her whose notes were to him sweeter than the thrush–whose angel strains used to greet his morning and evening hours, was silent in the grave! He should no more see her white hand upon the lute; he should no more behold that bosom, brighter than foam upon the wave, heave in tender transport at his applause! What then was music to him? A soulless sound, or a direful knell, to recall the remembrance of all he had lost.
Such were his thoughts when the words of Thusa ha measg rung from Lady Mar's voice. Those were the strains which Halbert used to breathe from his harp, to call his Marion to her nightly slumbers:–those were the strains with which that faithful servant had announced that she slept to wake no more!
What wonder, then, that Wallace fled from the apartment, and buried himself, and his aroused grief, amid the distant solitudes of the beacon-hill!
While looking over the shoulder of his uncle, on the station which Stirling held amid the Ochil hills, Edwin had at intervals cast a sidelong glance upon the changing complexion of his commander; and no sooner did he see him hurry from the room, than, fearful of some disaster having befallen the garrison (which Wallace did not choose immediately to mention), he also stole out of the apartment.
After seeking the object of his anxiety for a long time without avail, he was returning on his steps, when, attracted by the splendor of the moon silvering the beacon-hill, he ascended, to once at least tread that acclivity in light which he had so miraculously passed in darkness. Scarce a zephyr fanned the sleeping air. He moved on with a flying step, till a deep sigh arrested him. He stopped and listened: it was repeated again and again. He gently drew near, and saw a human figure reclining on the ground. The head of the apparent mourner was unbonneted, and the brightness of the moon shone on his polished forehead. Edwin thought the sound of those sighs was the same he had often heard from the breast of Wallace, and he no longer doubted having found the object of his search. He walked forward. Again the figure sighed; but with a depth so full of piercing woe, that Edwin hesitated.
A cloud had passed over the moon; but, sailing off again, displayed to the anxious boy that he had indeed drawn very near his friend. "Who goes there?" exclaimed Wallace, starting on his feet.
"Your Edwin," returned the youth. "I feared something wrong had happened, when I saw you look so sad, and leave the room abruptly."
Wallace pressed his hand in silence. "Then some evil has befallen you?" inquired Edwin, in an agitated voice;–"you do not speak!"
Wallace seated himself on a stone, and leaned his head upon the hilt of his sword. "No new evil has befallen me, Edwin;–but there is such a thing as remembrance, that stabs deeper than the dagger's point."
"What remembrance can wound you, my general? The abbot of St. Columba has often told me that memory is a balm to every ill with the good; and have not you been good to all?–The benefactor, the preserver of thousands! Surely, if man can be happy, it must be Sir William Wallace!"
"And so I am, my Edwin, when I contemplate the end. But, in the interval, with all thy sweet philosophy, is it not written here 'that man was made to mourn?'" He put his hand on his heart; and then, after a short pause, resumed:–"Doubly I mourn, doubly am I bereaved; for, had it not been for an enemy, more fell than he which beguiled Adam of Paradise, I might have been a father; I might have lived to have gloried in a son like thee; I might have seen my wedded angel clasp such a blessing to her bosom; but now, both are cold in clay! These are the recollections which sometimes draw tears down thy leader's cheeks. And do not believe, brother of my soul," said he, pressing the now weeping Edwin to his breast, "that they disgrace his manhood. The Son of God wept over the tomb of his friend; and shall I deny a few tears, dropped in stealth, over the grave of my wife and child?"
Edwin sobbed aloud. "No son could love you dearer than I do. Ah, let my duty, my affection, teach you to forget you have lost a child. I will replace all to you but your Marion; and her, the pitying Son of Mary will restore to you in the kingdom of heaven."
Wallace looked steadfastly at the young preacher. "'Out of the mouth of babes we shall hear wisdom!' Thine, dear Edwin, I will lay to heart. Thou shalt comfort me when my hermit-soul shuts out all the world besides."
"Then I am indeed your brother!" cried the happy youth; "admit me but to your heart, and no fraternal, no filial tie, shall be more strongly linked than mine."
"What tender affection I can spare from those resplendent regions," answered Wallace, pointing to the skies, "are thine. The fervors of my once ardent soul are Scotland's, or I die. But thou art too young, my brother," added he, interrupting himself, "to understand all the feelings, all the seeming contradictions, of my contending heart."
"Not so," answered Edwin, with a modest blush; "what was Lady Marion's you now devote to Scotland. The blaze of those affections which were hers, would consume your being, did you not pour it forth on your country. Were you not a patriot, grief would prey upon your life."
"You have read me, Edwin," replied Wallace; "and that you may never love to idolatry, learn this also. Though Scotland lay in ruins, I was happy: I felt no captivity while in Marion's arms: even oppression was forgotten, when she made the sufferer's tears cease to flow. She absorbed my wishes, my thoughts, my life!–and she was wrested from me, that I might feel myself a slave; that the iron might enter into my soul, with which I was to pull down tyranny, and free my country. Mark the sacrifice, young man," cried Wallace, starting on his feet; "it even now smokes–and the flames are here inextinguishable." He struck his hand upon his breast. "Never love as I have loved; and you will be a patriot, without needing to taste my bitter cup!"
Edwin trembled; his tears were checked. "I can love no one better than I do you, my general! and is there any crime in that?"
Wallace in a moment recovered from the transient wildness which had possessed him; "None, my Edwin," replied he; "the affections are never criminal but when by their excess they blind us to other duties. The offence of mine is judged, and I bow to the penalty. When that is paid, then may my ashes sleep in rescued Scotland!–Then may the God of victory and of mercy grant that the seraph spirits of my wife and infant may meet my pardoned soul in paradise." Edwin wept afresh. "Cease, dear boy!" said he; "these presages are very comforting; they whisper that the path of glory leads thy brother to his home." As he spoke, he took the arm of the silent Edwin (whose sensibility locked up the powers of speech), and putting it through his, they descended the hill together.
On the open ground before the great tower they were met by Murray. "I come to seek you," cried he: "we have had woe on woe in the citadel since you left it."
"Nothing very calamitous," returned Wallace, "if we may guess by the merry aspect of the messenger."
"Only a little whirlwind of my aunt's; in which we have had airs and showers, enough to wet us through and blow us dry again!"
The conduct of the lady had been even more extravagant than her nephew chose to describe. After the knight's departure, when the chiefs entered into conversation respecting his future plans, and Lennox mentioned that when his men should arrive (for whom he had that evening despatched Ker), it was Wallace's intention to march immediately for Stirling, whither, it could hardly be doubted, Aymer de Valence had fled. "I shall be left here," continued the earl, "to assist you, Lord Mar, in the severer duties attendant on being governor of this place."
No sooner did these words reach the ears of the countess than, struck with despair, she hastened towards her husband, and earnestly exclaimed, "You will not suffer this?"
"No," returned the earl, mistaking her meaning; "not being able to perform the duties attendant on the responsible station with which Wallace would honor me, I shall relinquish it altogether to Lord Lennox, and be amply satisfied in finding myself under his protection."
"Ah, where is protection without Sir William Wallace?" cried she. "If he go, our enemies will return. Who then will repel them from these walls? Who will defend your wife and only son from falling again into the hands of our doubly incensed foes?"
Mar observed Lord Lennox color at this imputation on his bravery, and shocked at the affront which his unreflecting wife seemed to give so gallant a chief, he hastily replied, "Though this wounded arm cannot boast, yet the earl of Lennox is an able representative of our commander."
"I will die, madam," interrupted Lennox, "before anything hostile approaches you or your children."
She attended slightly to this pledge, and again addressed her lord with fresh arguments for the detention of Wallace. Sir Roger Kirkpatrick, impatient under all this foolery, as he justly deemed it, abruptly said, "Be assured, fair lady, Israel's Samson was not brought into the world to keep guard over women! and I hope our champion will know his duty better than to allow himself to be tied to any nursery girdle in Christendom."
The brave old earl was offended with this roughness, but ere he could so express himself, its object darted her own sever retort on Kirkpatrick, and then, turning to her husband, with an hysterical sob, exclaimed, "It is well seen what will be my fate when Wallace is gone! Would he have stood by and beheld me thus insulted?"
Distressed with shame at her conduct, and anxious to remove her fears, Lord Mar softly whispered her, and threw his arm about her waist. She thrust him from her:–"You care not what may become of me, and my heart disdains your blandishments."
Lennox rose in silence, and walked to the other end of the chamber. Sir Roger Kirkpatrick followed him, muttering, pretty audibly, his thanks to Saint Andrew that he had never been yoked with a wife. Scrymgeour and Murray tried to allay the storm in her bosom by circumstantially detailing how the fortress must be equally safe under the care of Lennox as of Wallace. But they discoursed in vain; she was obstinate, and at last left the room in a passion of tears.
On the return of Wallace, Lord Lennox advanced to meet him. "What shall we do?" said he. "Without you have the witchcraft of Hercules, and can be in two places at once, I fear we must either leave the rest o' Scotland to fight for itself, or never restore peace to this castle."'
Wallace smiled, but before he could answer, Lady Mar, having heard his voice ascending the stairs, suddenly entered the room. She held her infant in her arms. Her air was composed, but her eyes yet shone in tears. At this sight Lord Lennox, sufficiently disgusted with the lady, taking Murray by the arm, withdrew with him from the apartment.
She approached Wallace: "You are come, my deliverer, to speak comfort to the mother of this poor babe. My cruel lord here, and the earl of Lennox, say you mean to abandon us in this castle?"
"It cannot be abandoned," returned the chief, "while they are in it. But if so warlike a scene alarms you, would not a religious sanctuary–"
"Not for worlds!" cried she, interrupting him; "what altar is held sacred by the enemies of our country?–O! wonder not, then," added she, putting her face to that of her child, "that I should wish this innocent babe never to be from under the wing of such a protector."
"But that is impossible, Joanna," rejoined the earl; "Sir William Wallace has duties to perform superior to that of keeping watch over any private family. His presence is wanted in the field, and we should be traitors to the cause did we detain him."
"Unfeeling Mar," cried she, bursting into tears, "thus to echo the words of the barbarian Kirkpatrick; thus to condemn us to die! You will see another tragedy: your own wife and child seized by the returning Southrons, and laid bleeding at your feet!"
Wallace walked from her much agitated.
"Rather, inhuman Joanna," whispered Lord Mar to her, in an angry voice, "to make such a reference in the presence of our protector! I cannot stay to listen to a pertinacity as insulting to the rest of our brave leaders as it is oppressive to Sir William Wallace. Edwin, you will come for me when your aunt consents to be guided by right reason." While yet speaking he entered the passage that led to his own apartment.
Lady Mar sat a few minutes silent. She was not to be warned from her determination by the displeasure of a husband, whom she now regarded with the impatience of a bondwoman towards her taskmaster; and only solicitous to compass the detention of Sir William Wallace, she resolved, if he would not remain at the castle, to persuade him to conduct her himself to her husband's territories in the Isle of Bute. She could contrive to make the journey occupy more than one day, and for holding him longer she would trust to chance and her own inventions. With these resolutions she looked up. Edwin was speaking to Wallace. "What does he tell you?" said she; "that my lord has left me in displeasure? Alas! he comprehends not a mother's anxiety for her sole remaining child. One of my sweet twins, my dear daughter, died on my being brought a prisoner to this horrid fortress, and to lose this also would be more than I could bear. Look at this babe," cried she, holding it up to him; "let it plead to you for its life! Guard it, noble Wallace, whatever may become of me!"
The appeal of a mother made instant way to Sir William's heart; even her weaknesses, did they point to anxiety respecting her offspring, were sacred with him. "What would you have me do, madam? If you fear to remain here, tell me where you think you would be safer, and I will be your conductor?"
She paused to repress the triumph with which this proposal filled her, and then, with downcast eyes, replied:–"In the sea-girt Bute stands Rothsay, a rude but strong castle of my lord's. It possesses nothing to attract the notice of the enemy, and there I might remain in perfect safety. Lord Mar may keep his station here, until a general victory sends you, noble Wallace, to restore my child to its father."
Wallace bowed his assent to her proposal; and Edwin, remembering the earl's injunction, inquired if he might inform him of what was decided. When he left the room, Lady Mar rose, and suddenly putting her son into the arms of Wallace:–"Let his sweet caresses thank you." Wallace trembled as he pressed its little mouth to his; and, mistranslating this emotion, she dropped her face upon the infant's, and in affecting to kiss it, rested her head upon the bosom of the chief. There was something in this action more than maternal; it surprised and disconcerted Wallace. "Madam," said he, drawing back, and relinquishing the child, "I do not require any thanks for serving the wife and son of Lord Mar."
At that moment the earl entered. Lady Mar flattered herself that the repelling action of Wallace, and his cold answer, had arisen from the expectation of this entrance; yet blushing with something like disappointment, she hastily uttered a few agitated words, to inform her husband that Bute was to be her future sanctuary.
Lord Mar approved it, and declared his determination to accompany her. "In my state, I can be of little use here," said he; "my family will require protection, even in that seclusion; and therefore, leaving Lord Lennox sole governor of Dumbarton, I shall unquestionably attend them to Rothsay myself."
This arrangement would break in upon the lonely conversations she had meditated to have with Wallace, and therefore the countess objected to the proposal. But none of her arguments being admitted by her lord, and as Wallace did not support them by a word, she was obliged to make a merit of necessity, and consent to her husband being their companion.
OWARDS evening, the next day, Ker not only returned with the earl of Lennox's men, but brought with them Sir Eustace Maxwell of Carlaveroch. That brave knight happened to be in the neighborhood, the very same night in which De Valence fled before the arms of Wallace across the Clyde; and he no sooner saw the Scottish colors on the walls of Dumbarton, than, finding out who was their planter, his soul took fire; and stung with a generous ambition of equalling in glory his equal in years, he determined to assist, while he emulated the victor.
To this end, he traversed the adjoining country; striving to enlighten the understandings of the stupidly satisfied, and to excite the discontented, to revolt. With most he failed. Some took upon them to lecture him on "fishing in troubled waters;" and warned him, if he would keep his head on his shoulders, to wear his yoke in peace. Others thought the project too arduous for men of small means; they wished well to the arms of Sir William Wallace; and, should he continue successful, would watch the moment to aid him with all their little power. Those who had much property, feared to risk its loss by embracing a doubtful struggle. Some were too great cowards to fight for the rights they would gladly regain by the exertions of others. And others, again, who had families, shrunk from taking part in a cause which, should it fail, would not only put their lives in danger, but expose their offspring to the revenge of a resentful enemy. This was the best apology of any that had been offered: natural affection was the pleader; and though blinded to its true interest, such weakness had an amiable source, and so was pardoned. But the other pleas were so basely selfish, so undeserving of anything but scorn, that Sir Eustace Maxwell could not forbear expressing it. "When Sir William Wallace is entering full sail, you will send your birlings to tow him in! but if a plank could save him now, you would not throw it to him! I understand you, sirs, and shall trouble your patriotism no more."
In short, none but about a hundred poor fellows, whom outrages had rendered desperate, and a few brave spirits, who would put all to the hazard for so good a cause, could be prevailed on to hold themselves in readiness to obey Sir Eustace, when he should see the moment to conduct them to Sir William Wallace. He was trying his eloquence among the clan of Lennox, when Ker arriving, stamped his persuasions with truth; and above five hundred men arranged themselves under their lord's standard. Maxwell gladly explained himself to Wallace's lieutenant; and summoning his little reserve, they marched with flying pennons through the town of Dumbarton. At sight of so much larger a power than they expected would venture to appear in arms, and sanctioned by the example of the earl of Lennox (whose name held a great influence in these parts), several, who before had held back, from doubting their own judgment, now came forward; and nearly eight hundred well appointed men marched into the fortress.
So large a reinforcement was gratefully received by Wallace; and he welcomed Maxwell with a cordiality which inspired that young knight with an affection equal to his zeal.
A council being held respecting the disposal of the new troops, it was decided that the Lennox men must remain with their earl in garrison; while those brought by Maxwell, and under his command, should follow Wallace in the prosecution of his conquests, along with his own especial people.
These preliminaries being arranged, the remainder of the day was dedicated to more mature deliberations,–to the unfolding of the plan of warfare which Wallace had conceived. As he first sketched the general outline of his design, and then proceeded to the particulars of each military movement, he displayed such comprehensiveness of mind; such depth of penetration; clearness of apprehension; facility in expedients; promptitude in perceiving, and fixing on the most favorable points of attack; explaining their bearings upon the power of the enemy; and where the possession of such a castle would compel the neighboring ones to surrender; and where occupying the little hills with bands of resolute Scots, would be a more efficient bulwark than a thousand towers–that Maxwell gazed on him with admiration, and Lennox with wonder.
Mar had seen the power of his arms; Murray had already drunk the experience of a veteran, from his genius; hence, they were not surprised on hearing that which filled strangers with amazement.
Lennox gazed on his leader's youthful countenance, doubting whether he really were listening to military plans, great as general ever formed; or were visited, in vision, by some heroic shade, who offered to his sleeping fancy, designs far vaster than his waking faculties could have conceived. He had thought that the young Wallace might have won Dumbarton by a bold stroke, and that when his invincible courage should be steered by graver heads, every success might be expected from his arms: but now that he heard him informing veterans on the art of war, and saw that when turned to any cause of policy, "the Gordian knot of it he did unloose, familiar as his garter," he marvelled, and said within himself, "Surely this man is born to be a sovereign!"
Maxwell though equally astonished, was not so rapt. "You have made arms the study of your life?" inquired he.
"It was the study of my earliest days," returned Wallace. "But when Scotland lost her freedom, as the sword was not drawn in her defence, I looked not where it lay. I then studied the arts of peace, that is over; and now the passion of my soul revives. When the mind is bent on one subject only, all becomes clear that leads to it: zeal, in such cases, is almost genius."
Soon after these observations, it was admitted that Wallace might attend Lord Mar and his family on the morrow to the Isle of Bute.
When the dawn broke, he awoke from his heather bed in the great tower; and having called forth twenty of the Bothwell men to escort their lord, he told Ireland he should expect to have a cheering account of the wounded on his return.
"But to assure the poor fellows," rejoined the honest soldier, "that something of yourself still keeps watch over them, I pray you leave me the sturdy sword with which you won Dumbarton. It shall be hung up in their sight, * and a good soldier's wounds will heal by looking on it."
Wallace smiled. "Were it our holy King David's we might expect such a miracle. But you are welcome to it; and here let it remain till I take it hence. Meanwhile, lend me yours, Stephen; for a truer never fought for Scotland."
A glow of conscious valor flushed the cheek of the veteran. "There, my dear lord," said he, presenting it; "it will not dishonor your hand, for it cut down many a proud Norwegian on the field of Largs."
Wallace took the sword, and turned to meet Murray with Edwin in the portal. When they reached the citadel, Lennox and all the officers in the garrison were assembled to bid their chief a short adieu. Wallace spoke to each separately, and then approaching the countess, led her down the rock to the horses, which were to convey them to the Frith of Clyde. Lord Mar, between Murray and Edwin, followed: and the servants and guard completed the suite.
Being well mounted, they pleasantly pursued their way, avoiding all inhabited places, and resting in the deepest recesses of the hills. Lord Mar had proposed travelling all night; but at the close of the evening his countess complained of fatigue, declaring she could not advance further than the eastern bank of the river Cart. No shelter appeared in sight, excepting a thick and extensive wood of hazels; but the air being mild, and the lady declaring her inability of moving on, Lord Mar at last became reconciled to his wife and son passing the night with no other canopy than the trees. Wallace ordered cloaks to be spread on the ground for the countess and her women; and seeing them laid to rest, planted his men to keep guard around the circle.
The moon had sunk in the west before the whole of his little camp were asleep; but when all seemed composed, he wandered forth by the dim light of the stars to view the surrounding country–a country he had so often traversed in his boyish days. A little onwards, in green Renfrewshire, lay the lands of his father; but that Ellerslie of his ancestors, like his own Ellerslie of Clydesdale, his country's enemies had levelled with the ground! He turned in anguish of heart towards the south, for there less racking remembrances hovered over the distant hills.
Leaning on the shattered stump of an old tree, he fixed his eyes on the far-stretching plain, which alone seemed to divide him from the venerable Sir Ronald Crawford and his youthful haunts at Ayr. Full of thoughts of her who used to share those happy scenes, he heard a sigh behind him. He turned round, and beheld a female figure disappear amongst the trees. He stood motionless; again it met his view: it seemed to approach. A strange emotion stirred within him. When he last passed these borders, he was bringing his bride from Ayr! What then was this ethereal visitant? The silver light of the stars was not brighter than its airy robes, which floated in the wind. His heart paused–it beat violently–still the figure advanced. Lost in the wilderness of his imagination, he exclaimed "Marion!" and darted forwards, as if to rush into her embrace. But it fled, and again vanished. He dropped upon the ground in speechless disappointment.
"'Tis false!" cried he, recovering from his first expectation; "'tis a phantom of my own creating. The pure spirit of Marion would never fly me; I loved her too well. She would not thus redouble my grief. But I shall go to thee, wife of my soul!" cried he; "and that is my comfort. Balm, indeed, is the Christian's hope!"
Such were his words, such were his thoughts, till the coldness of the hour and the exhaustion of nature putting a friendly seal upon his senses, he sunk upon the bank, and fell into a profound sleep.
When he awoke, the lark was carolling above his head; and to his surprise he found that a plaid was laid over him. He threw it off, and beheld Edwin seated at his feet. "This has been your doing, my kind brother," said he; " but how came you to discover me?"
"I missed you when the dawn broke, and at last found you here, sleeping under the dew."
"And has none else been astir?" inquired Wallace, thinking of the figure he had seen.
"None that I know of. All were fast asleep when I left the party."
Wallace began to fancy that he had been laboring under the impressions of some powerful dream, and saying no more, he returned to the wood. Finding everybody ready, he took his station; and setting forth, all proceeded cheerfully, though slowly, through the delightful valleys of Barochan. By sunset they arrived at the point of embarkation. The journey ought to have been performed in half the time; but the countess petitioned for long rests, a compliance with which the younger part of the cavalcade conceded with reluctance.
* This tower, within the fortress of Dumbarton, is still called "Wallace's Tower," and a sword is shown there as the one that belonged to Wallace.
T Gourock, Murray engaged two small vessels: one for the earl and countess, with Wallace as their escort; the other for himself and Edwin, to follow with a few of the men.
It was a fine evening, and they embarked with everything in their favor. The boatmen calculated on reaching Bute in a few hours; but ere they had been half an hour at sea, the wind veering about, obliged them to woo its breezes by a traversing motion, which, though it lengthened their voyage, increased its pleasantness by carrying them often within near views of the ever-varying shores. Sailing under a side-wind, they beheld the huge irregular rocks of Dunoon, overhanging the ocean; while from their projecting brows hung every shrub which can live in that saline atmosphere.
"There," whispered Lady Mar, gently inclining towards Wallace, "might the beautiful mermaid of Corie Vrekin keep her court! Observe how magnificently those arching cliffs overhang the hollows, and how richly they are studded with shells and seaflowers!"
No flower of the field or of the ocean that came within the ken of Wallace, wasted its sweetness unadmired. He assented to the remarks of Lady Mar, who continued to expatiate on the beauties of the shores which they passed; and thus the hours flew pleasantly away, till, turning the southern point of the Cowal Mountains, the scene suddenly changed. The wind, which had gradually been rising, blew a violent gale from that part of the coast; and the sea, being pent between the rocks which skirt the continent and the northern aide of Bute, became so boisterous, that the boatmen began to think they should be driven upon the rocks of the island, instead of reaching its bay. Wallace tore down the sails, and laying his nervous arm to the oar, assisted to keep the vessel off the breakers, against which the waves were driving her. The sky collected into a gloom; and while the teeming clouds seemed descending even to rest upon the cracking masts, the swelling of the ocean threatened to heave her up into their very bosoms.
Lady Mar looked with affright at the gathering tempest, and with difficulty was persuaded to retire under the shelter of a little awning. The earl forgot his debility in the general terror, and tried to reassure the boatmen. But a tremendous sweep of the gale, driving the vessel far across the head of Bute, shot her past the mouth of Loch Fyne, towards the perilous rocks of Arran. "Here our destruction is certain!" cried the master of the bark, at the same time confessing his ignorance of the navigation on this side of the island. Lord Mar seizing the helm from the stupefied master, called to Wallace, "While you keep the men to their duty," cried he," I will steer."
The earl, being perfectly acquainted with the coast, Wallace gladly saw the helm in his hand. But he had scarcely stepped forward himself, to give some necessary directions, when a heavy sea, breaking over the deck, carried two of the poor mariners overboard. Wallace instantly threw out a couple of ropes. Then, amidst a spray so blinding that the vessel appeared in a cloud, and while buffeted on each side by the raging of waves, which seemed contending to tear her to pieces, she lay to for a few minutes, to rescue the men from the yawning gulf; –one caught a rope, and was saved; but the other was seen no more.
Again the bark was set loose to the current. Wallace, now with two rowers only, applied his whole strength to their aid. The master and the third man were employed in the unceasing toil of laving out the accumulating water.
While the anxious chief tugged at the oar, and watched the thousand embattled cliffs which threatened destruction, his eye looked for the vessel that contained his friends. But the liquid mountains which rolled around him prevented all view; and, with hardly a hope of seeing them again, he pursued his attempt to preserve the lives of those committed to his care.
All this while Lady Mar lay in a state of stupefaction. Having fainted at the first alarm of danger, she had fallen from swoon to swoon, and now remained almost insensible upon the bosoms of her maids. In a moment the vessel struck with a great shock, and the next instant it seemed to move with a velocity incredible. –"The whirlpool! the whirlpool!" resounded from every lip. But again the rapid motion was suddenly checked, and the women, fancying they had struck on the Vrekin rock, shrieked aloud. The cry, and the terrified words which accompanied it, aroused Lady Mar. She started from her trance, and, while the confusion redoubled, rushed towards the dreadful scene.
The mountainous waves and lowering clouds, borne forward by the blast, anticipated the dreariness of night. The last rays of the setting sun had long passed away, and the deep shadows of the driving heavens cast the whole into a gloom, even more terrific than absolute darkness; while the high and beetling rocks, towering aloft in precipitous walls, mocked the hopes of the sea-beaten mariner, should he even buffet the waters to reach their base; and the jagged shingles, deeply shelving beneath the waves, or projecting their pointed summits upwards, showed the crew where the rugged death would meet them.
A little onward, a thousand massy fragments, rent by former tempests from their parent cliffs, lay at the foundations of the immense acclivities which faced the cause of their present alarm–a whirlpool almost as terrific as that of Scarba. The moment the powerful blast drove the vessel within the influence of the outward edge of the first circle of the vortex, Wallace leaped from the deck on the rocks, and, with the same rope in his hand with which he had saved the life of the seaman, he called to the two men to follow him, who yet held similar ropes, fastened like his own to the prow of the vessel; and being obeyed, they strove, by towing it along, to stem the suction of the current.
It was at this instant that Lady Mar rushed forward upon deck.
"In for your life, Joanna!" exclaimed the earl. She answered him not, but looked wildly around her. Nowhere could she see Wallace.
"Have I drowned him?" cried she, in a voice of, frenzy, and striking the women from her, who would have held her back. "Let me clasp him, even in the deep waters!"
Happily, the earl lost the last sentence in the roaring of the storm.
"Wallace, Wallace!" cried she, wringing her hands, and still struggling with her women. At that moment, a huge wave sinking before her discovered the object of her fears, straining along the surface of a rock, and followed by the men in the same laborious task, t