The Scottish Chiefs

  Chapter LXXIX.

  Lumloch.

  Wallace, having turned abruptly away from his lamenting servants,struck into the deep defiles of the Pentland Hills. They pointed todifferent tracks. Aware that the determined affection of some of hisfriends might urge them to dare the perils attendant on his fellowship,he hesitated a moment which path to take. Certainly not towardHuntingtower, to bring immediate destruction on its royal inhabitant.Nor to any chieftain of the Highlands, to give rise to a spirit ofcivil warfare. Neither would he pursue the eastern track; for in thatdirection, as pointing to France, his friends would most likely seekhim. He therefore turned his steps toward the ports of Ayr. The roadwas circuitous; but it would soon enough take him from the land of hisfathers--from the country he must never see again!

  As morning dispelled the shades of night, it discovered still moredreary glooms. A heavy mist hung over the hills, and rolled before himalong the valley. Still he pursued his way, although, the dayadvanced, the vapors collected into thicker blackness, and, floatingdown the heights, at last burst into a deluge of rain. All around wasdarkened by the descending water; and the accumulating floods, dashingfrom the projecting craigs above, swelled the burn in his path to aroaring river. Wallace stood in the torrent, with its wild wavesbreaking against his sides. The rain fell on his uncovered head, andthe chilling blast sighed in his streaming hair. Looking around him,he paused amidst this tumult of nature. "Must there be strife, evenamongst the elements, to show that this is no longer a land for me?Spirits of these hills," cried he, "pour not thus your rage on abanished man! A man without a friend, without a home." He started andsmiled at his own adjuration. "The spirits of Heaven launch not thistempest on a defenseless head; 'tis chance!--but affliction shapes allthings to its own likeness. Thou, oh, my Father! would not suffer anydemon of the air to bend thy broken reed! Therefore rain on, yetorrents; ye are welcome to William Wallace. He can well breast themountain's storm, who has stemmed the ingratitude of his country."

  Hills, rivers, and vales were measured by his solitary steps, tillentering on the heights of Clydesdale, the broad river of his nativeglen spread its endeared waters before him. Not a wave passed alongthat had not kissed the feet of some scene consecrated to his memory.Over the western hills lay the lands of his forefathers. There he hadfirst drawn his breath; there he imbibed from the lips of his reveredgrandfather, now no more, those lessons of virtue by which he hadlived, and for which he was now ready to die. Far to the leftstretched the wide domains of Lammington: there his youthful heartfirst knew the pulse of love: there all nature smiled upon him, forMarion was near, and hope hailed him, from every sunlit mountain'sbrow. Onward in the depths of the cliffs, lay Ellerslie, the home ofhis heart, where he had tasted the joys of Paradise; but all there,like that once blessed place, now lay in one wide ruin.

  "Shall I visit thee again?" said he, as he hurried along the beetlingcraigs; "Ellerslie! Ellerslie," cried he; "'tis no hero, no triumphantwarrior, that approaches! Receive--shelter thy deserted, widowedmaster! I come, my Marion, to mourn thee in thine own domains!"

  He flew forward; he ascended the cliffs; he rushed down thehazel-crowned pathway--but it was no longer smooth; thistles, andthickly-interwoven underwood, obstructed his steps. Breaking throughthem all, he turned the angle of the rock--the last screen between himand the view of his once beloved home. On this spot he used to standon moonlight evenings, watching the graceful form of his Marion, as shepassed to and fro within her chamber. His eyes now turnedinstinctively to the point, but it gazed on vacancy. His home haddisappeared: one solitary tower alone remained, standing like "ahermit, the last of his race," to mourn over the desolation of all bywhich it had once been surrounded. Not a human being now moved on thespot which, three years before, was thronged with his grateful vassals.Not a voice was now heard, where then sounded the harp ofHalbert--where breathed the soul-entrancing song of his beloved Marion!

  "Death!" cried he, striking his breast, "how many ways hast thou tobereave poor mortality! All, all gone! My Marion sleeps in Bothwell:the faithful Halbert at her feet. And my peasantry of Lanark, how manyof you have found untimely graves in the bosom of your vainly rescuedcountry!"

  A few steps forward, and he stood on a mound of moldering fragments,heaped over the pavement of what had been the hall.

  "My wife's blood marks the stones beneath!" cried he.

  He flung himself on the ruins, and a groan burst from his heart. Itechoed mournfully from the opposite rock. He started and gazed around.

  "Solitude!" cried he, with a faint smile; "naught is here, but Wallaceand his sorrow. Marion! I call, and even thou dost not answer me;thou, who didst ever fly at the sound of my voice! Look on me, love!"exclaimed he, stretching his arms toward the sky; "look on me, and foronce, till ever, cheer thy lonely, heart-stricken Wallace!"

  Tears choked his further utterance; and once more laying his head uponthe stones, he wept in silence, till exhausted natured found repose insleep.

  The sun was gilding the gray summits of the ruined tower under whoseshadow he lay, when Wallace slowly opened his eyes; looking around him,he smote his breast, and with a heavy groan sunk back upon the stones.In the silence which succeeded this burst of memory, he thought heheard a rustling near him, and a half-suppressed sigh. He listenedbreathless. The sigh was repeated. He gently raised himself on hishand, and with an expectation he dared hardly whisper to himself,turned toward the spot whence the sound proceeded. The branches of arose-tree that had been planted by his Marion, shook and scattered theleaves of its ungathered flowers upon the brambles which grew beneath.Wallace rose in agitation. The skirts of a human figure appeared,retreating behind the ruins. He advanced toward it, and beheld EdwinRuthven. The moment their eyes met, Edwin precipitated himself at hisfeet, and clinging to him, exclaimed:

  "Pardon me this pursuit! But we meet to part no more."

  Wallace raised him, and strained him to his breast in silence. Edwin,in hardly articulate accents, continued:

  "Some kind power checked your hand when writing to your Edwin. Youcould not command him not to follow you! you left the letterunfinished, and thus I come to bless you for not condemning me to dieof a broken heart!"

  "I did not write farewell to thee," cried Wallace, looking mournfullyon him, "but I meant it, for I must part from all I love in Scotland.It is my doom. The country needs me not, and I have need of Heaven. Igo into its outcourts at Chartres. Follow me there, dear boy, whenthou hast accomplished thy noble career on earth, and then our grayhairs shall mingle together over the altar of the God of Peace; but nowreceive the farewell of thy friend. Return to Bruce, and be to him thedearest representative of William Wallace."

  "Never!" cried Edwin; "thou alone art my prince, my friend, my brother,my all in this world! My parents, dear as they are, would have buriedmy youth in a cloister, but your name called me to honor, and to you,in life or in death, I dedicate my being."

  "Then," returned Wallace, "that honor summons you to the side of thedying Bruce. He is now in the midst of his foes."

  "And where art thou?" interrupted Edwin; "who drove thee hence butenemies? who line these roads, but wretches sent to betray theirbenefactor? No, my friend, thy fate shall be my fate--thy woe my woe!We live, or we die together: the field, the cloister, or the tomb--allshall be welcomed by Edwin Ruthven, if they separate him not fromthee!" Seeing that Wallace was going to speak, and fearful that it wasto repeat his commands to be left alone, he suddenly exclaimed withvehemence: "Father of men and angels! grant me thy favor only as I amtrue to the vow I have sworn, never more to leave the side of SirWilliam Wallace!"

  To urge the dangers in which such a resolution would expose this toofaithful friend, Wallace knew would be in vain: he read an invincibledetermination in the eye and gesture of Edwin; and, therefore, yieldingto the demands of friendship, he threw himself upon his neck.

  "For thy sake, Edwin, I will endure yet awhile mankind at large!
Thybloom of honor shall not be cropped by my hand. We will go together toFrance; and while I seek a probationary quiet in some of its remotecities, thou mayest bear the standard of Scotland, in the land of ourally, against the proud enemies of Bruce."

  "Make of me what you will," returned Edwin, "only do not divide me fromyourself!"

  Wallace explained to his friend his design of crossing the hills toAyrshire, in some port of which he did not doubt finding some vesselbound for France. Edwin overturned this plan by telling him that inthe moment the abthanes repledged their secret faith to England, theysent orders into Ayrshire to watch the movements of Wallace'srelations, and to prevent their either hearing of or marching to theassistance of their wronged kinsman. And besides this, no sooner wasit discovered by the insurgent lords at Roslyn that he had disappearedfrom the camp, than, supposing he meant to appeal to Philip, theydispatched expresses all along the western and eastern coasts, from theFriths of Forth and Clyde to those of Solway and Berwick-upon-Tweed, tointercept him. On hearing this, and that all avenues from the southernparts of his country were closed upon him, Wallace determined to trythe north. Some bay in the Western Highlands might open its yet notungrateful arms to set its benefactor free! "If not by a ship,"continued Edwin, "a fisher's boat will launch us from a country nolonger worthy of you!"

  Their course was then taken along the Cartlane Craigs, at a distancefrom villages and mountain cots, which, leaning from their verdantheights, seemed to invite the traveler to refreshment and repose.Though the sword of Wallace had won them this quiet, though his wisdom,like the hand of Creation, had spread the lately barren hills withbeauteous harvest, yet had an ear of corn been asked in his name, itwould have been denied. A price was set upon his head, and the livesof all who should succor him would be forfeited! He who had givenbread and homes to thousands was left to perish--had no where toshelter his head. Edwin looked anxiously on him as at times they spedsilently along: "Ah!" thought he, "this heroic endurance of evil is thetrue cross of our celestial Captain! Let who will carry his insigniato the Holy Land, here is the man who bears the real substance, thatwalks undismayed in the path of his sacrificed Lord!"

  The black plumage of a common Highland bonnet, which Edwin hadpurchased at one of the cottages to which he had gone alone to buy afew oaten cakes, hung over the face of his friend. That face no longerblazed with the fire of generous valor--it was pale and sad; butwhenever he turned his eyes on Edwin, the shades which seemed toenvelop it disappeared, a bright smile spoke the peaceful consciousnesswithin, a look of grateful affection expressed his comfort at havingfound, in defiance of every danger, he was not yet wholly forsaken.Edwin's youthful, happy spirit rejoiced in every glad beam which shoneon the face of him he loved. It awoke felicity in his breast. To beoccasionally near Wallace to share his confidence with others, hadalways filled him with joy, but now to be the only one on whom hisnoble heart leaned for consolation, was bliss unutterable. He trod onair, and even chid his beating heart for a delight which seemed toexult when his friend suffered: "But not so," ejaculated heinternally; "to be with thee is the delight! In life or in death thypresence is the sunshine of my soul!"

  When they arrived within sight of the high towers of Bothwell Castle,Wallace stopped. "We must not go thither," said Edwin, replying to thesentiment which spoke from the eyes of his friend; "the servants of mycousin Andrew may not be as faithful as their lord!"

  "I will not try them," returned Wallace, with a resigned smile; "mypresence in Bothwell Chapel shall not pluck danger on the head of mydauntless Murray. She wakes in heaven for me whose body sleeps there;and knowing where to find the jewel, my friend, shall I linger over thevacated casket?"

  While he yet spoke, a chieftain on horseback suddenly emerged from thetrees which led to the castle, and drew to their side. Edwin waswrapped in his plaid, and, cautiously concealing his face that nochance of his recognition might betray his companion, he walked brisklyon, without once looking at the stranger. But Wallace, being withoutany shade over the noble contour of a form which for majesty and gracewas unequaled in Scotland, could not be mistaken. He, too, movedswiftly forward. The horseman spurred after him. Perceiving himselfpursued, and therefore known, and aware that he must be overtaken, hesuddenly stopped. Edwin drew his sword, and would have given it intothe hand of his friend; but Wallace, putting it back, rapidly answered:"Leave my defense to this unweaponed arm. I would not use steelagainst my countrymen, but none shall take me while I have a sinew toresist."

  The chieftain now checked his horse in front of Wallace, andrespectfully raising his visor, discovered Sir John Monteith. At sightof him Edwin dropped the point of his yet unlifted sword; and Wallace,stepping back, "Monteith," said he, "I am sorry for this rencounter.If you would be safe from the destiny which pursues me, you must retireimmediately, and forget that we have met."

  "Never," cried Monteith; "I know the ingratitude of an envious countrydrives the bravest of her champions from our borders, but I also knowwhat belongs to myself! To serve you at all hazards! And by conjuringyou to become my guest, in my castle on the Frith of Clyde, I woulddemonstrate my grateful sense of the dangers you once incurred for me,and I therefore thank fortune for this rencounter."

  In vain Wallace expressed his determination not to bring peril on anyof his countrymen, by sojourning under any roof till he were far awayfrom Scotland. In vain he urged to Monteith the outlawry which wouldawait him should the infuriated abthanes discover that he had givenshelter to the man whom they had chosen to suppose a traitor, anddenounce as one. Monteith, after equally unsuccessful persuasion onhis side, at last said, that he knew a vessel was lying at Newark, nearhis castle, in which Wallace might immediately embark: and he imploredhim, by past friendship, to allow him to be his guide to its anchorage.To enforce this supplication, he threw himself off his horse, and,with protestations of a fidelity that trampled on all comfort he shouldever know in his now degraded country. "Once I saw Scotland's steadychampion, the brave Douglas, rifled from her shores! Do not then doomme to a second grief, bitterer than the first; do not you yourselfdrive me from the side of her last hero! Ah! let me behold you,companion of my school-days, friend, leader, benefactor! till the seawrests you forever from my eyes!" Exhausted and affected, Wallace gavehis hand to Monteith; the tear of gratitude stood in his eye. Helooked affectionately from Monteith to Edwin, from Edwin to Monteith:"Wallace shall yet live in the memory of the trusty of this land! you,my friend, prove it. I go richly forth, for the hearts of good men aremy companions."

  As they journeyed along the devious windings of the Clyde, and saw at adistance the aspiring turrets of Rutherglen, Edwin pointed to them, andsaid, "From that church a few months ago did you dictate a conqueror'sterms to England."

  "And now that very England makes me a fugitive," returned Wallace.

  "Oh! not England!" interrupted Edwin; "you bow not to her. It isblind, mad Scotland, who thus thrusts her benefactor from her."

  "Ah! then, my Edwin," rejoined he, "read in me this history ofthousands. So various is the fate of a people's idol; to-day he isworshiped as a god, to-morrow cast into the fire!"

  Monteith turned pale at this conversation; and quickening his steps,hurried in silence past the opening of the valley which presented theview of Rutherglen.

  Night overtook the travelers near the little village of Lumloch, abouttwo hours' journey from Glasgow. Here a storm coming on, Monteithadvised his friends to take shelter and rest. "As you object toimplicate others," said he, "you may sleep secure in an old barn whichat present has no ostensible owner. I remarked it while passing thisway from Newark. But I rather wish you would forget this too charyregard for others, and lodge with me in the neighboring cottage."

  Wallace was insensible to the pelting of the elements; his unsubduedspirit wanted rest for neither mind nor body; but the broken voice andlingering step of the young Edwin, who had severely sprained his footin the dark, penetrated his heart; and notwithstanding tha
t theresolute boy, suddenly rallying himself, declared that he was neitherweary nor in pain, Wallace seeing he was both, yielded a sad consent tobe conducted from the storm. "But not," said he, "to the house. Wewill go into the barn, and there, on the dry earth, my Edwin, we maygratefully repose."

  Monteith did not oppose him further, and pushing open the door, Wallaceand Edwin entered. Their conductor soon after followed with a lightfrom the cottage; and pulling down some heaped straw, strewed it on theground for a bed. "Here I shall sleep like a prince!" cried Edwin,throwing himself along the scattered truss.

  "But not," returned Monteith, "till I have disengaged you from your wetgarments, and preserved your arms and brigandine from the rust of thisnight."

  Edwin, sunk in weariness, said little in opposition; and havingsuffered Monteith to take away his sword and to unbrace his platedvest, dropped at once on the straw in a profound sleep.

  Wallace, that he might not disturb him by debate, yielded to therequest of Monteith; and having resigned his armor also, waved him agood-night. Monteith nodded the same, and closed the door upon hisvictims.

  Well known to the generals of King Edward as one who estimated hishonor as a mere counter of traffic, Sir John Monteith was considered bythem all as a hireling fit for any purpose. Though De Warenne had beenpersuaded to use unworthy means to intimidate his great opponent, hewould have shrunk from being a coadjutor of treachery. His removalfrom the lord-wardenship of Scotland, in consequence of the wounds hehad received at Dalkeith, opened a path to the elevation of Aymer deValence. And when he was named viceroy in the stead of De Warenne, hetold Edward that if he would authorize him to offer an earldom, withadequate estates, to Sir John Monteith, the old friend of Wallace, hewas sure so rapacious a chieftain would traverse sea and land to putthat formidable Scot in the hands of England. To incline Edward to theproffer of so large a bribe, De Valence instanced Monteith's havingvolunteered, while he commanded with Sir Eustace Maxwell on theborders, to betray the forces under him to the English general. Thetreachery was accepted; and for its execution he received a casket ofuncounted gold. Some other proofs of his devotion to England werementioned by De Valence.

  "You mean his devotion to money," replied the king, "and if that willmake him ours at this crisis, give him overflowing coffers, but noearldom! Though I must have the head of Wallace, I would not have oneof my peers show a title written in his blood. Ill deeds mustsometimes be done; but we do not emblazon their perpetrators!"

  De Valence having received his credentials, sent Haliburton (a Scottishprisoner, who bought his liberty too dear by such an embassage) toimpart to Sir John Monteith the King of England's approval. Monteithwas then castellan of Newark, where he had immured himself for manymonths, under a pretense of the reopening of old wounds; but the factwas his treasons were connected with so many accomplices that he fearedsome disgraceful disclosure, and therefore kept out of the way ofexciting public attention. Avarice was his master passion; and thesudden idea that there might be treasure in the iron box, which,unwitting of such a thought at the time, he had consigned to Wallace,first bound him a sordid slave. His murmurs for having allowed the boxto leave his possession, gave the alarm which caused the disasters atEllerslie, and his own immediate arrest. He was then sent a prisonerto Cressingham at Stirling; but in his way thither he made his escape,though only to fall into the hands of Soulis. That inhuman chiefthreatened to return him to his dungeons; and to avoid such amisfortune, Monteith engaged in the conspiracy to bring Lady Helen fromthe priory to the arms of this monster. On her escape, Soulis wouldhave wreaked his vengeance on his vile emissary; but Monteith, aware ofhis design, fled, and fled even into the danger he would have avoided.He fell in with a party of roaming Southrons, who conveyed him to Ayr.Once having immolated his honor, he kept no terms with conscience.Arnulf soon understood what manner of man was in his custody; and bysharing with him the pleasures of his table, soon drew from him everyinformation respecting the strength and resources of his country. Hisafter history was a series of secret treacheries to Scotland; and inreturn for them, an accumulation of wealth from England, thecomtemplation of which seemed to be his sole enjoyment.

  This new offer from De Valence was therefore greedily embraced. Hehappened to be at Rutherglen when Haliburton brought the proposal; andin the cloisters of its church** was its fell agreement signed. Hetransmitted an oath to De Valence that he would die or win his hire.And immediately dispatching spies to the camp at Roslyn, as soon as hewas informed of Wallace's disappearance, he judged, from the knowledgeof that chief's retentive affections, that whithersoever he intendedfinally to go, he would first visit Ellerslie, and the tomb of hiswife. According to this opinion, he planted his emissaries infavorable situations on the road, and then proceeded himself tointercept his victim at the most probable places.

  Not finding him at Bothwell, he was issuing forth to take the way toEllerslie, when the object of his search presented himself at theopening of the wood. The evil plan too well succeeded.

  Triumphant in his deceit, this master of hypocrisy left the barn, inwhich he had seen Wallace and his young friend lie down on that groundfrom which he had determined they should never more rise. Aware thatthe unconquerable soul of Wallace would never allow himself to be takenalive, he had stipulated with De Valence that the delivery of his headshould entitle him to a full reward. From Rutherglen to Lumloch noplace had presented itself in which he thought he could so judiciouslyplant an ambuscade to surprise the unsuspecting Wallace. And in thisvillage he had stationed so large a force of ruthless savages (broughtfor the occasion by Haliburton from the Irish island of Rathlin), thattheir employer had hardly a doubt of this night being the last of histoo-trusting friend's existence. These Rathliners neither knew ofWallace nor his exploits; but the lower order of Scots, however theymight fear to succor his distress, loved his person, and felt so boundto him by his actions, that Monteith durst not apply to any one of themto second his villainy.

  **The events of Wallace having dictated terms of peace with England,and Monteith pledging himself to that country's emissary to betrayWallace, having taken place in this church, are traditionary facts.

  The hour of midnight passed, and yet he could not summon courage tolead his men to their nefarious attack. Twice they urged him, beforehe arose from his affected sleep--for sleep he could not; guilt had"murdered sleep!" and he lay awake, restless, and longing for the dawn;and yet, ere that dawn, the deed must be accomplished! A cock crewfrom the neighboring farm.

  "That is the sign of morning, and we have yet done nothing," exclaimeda surly ruffian, who leaned on his battle-ax in an ssopposite corner ofthe apartment.

  "No, it is the signal of our enemy's captivity!" cried Monteith."Follow me, but gently. If ye speak a word or a single target rattle,before ye all fall upon him, we are lost. It is a being ofsupernatural might, not a mere man, whom ye go to encounter. He thatfirst disables him shall have a double reward."

  "Depend upon us," returned the sturdiest ruffian; and stealingcautiously out of the cottage, the party advanced with noiseless stepstoward the barn. Monteith paused at the door, making a sign to his mento halt while he listened. He put his ear to a crevice--not a murmurwas within. He gently raised the latch, and setting the door wideopen, with his finger on his lip, beckoned his followers. Withoutventuring to draw a breath, they approached the threshold. Themeridian moon shone full into the hovel, and shed a broad light upontheir victims. The innocent face of Edwin rested on the bosom of hisfriend, and the arm of Wallace lay on the spread straw with which hehad covered the tender body of his companion. So fair a picture ofmortal friendship was never before beheld. But the hearts were blindwhich looked on it, and Monteith gave the signal. He retreated out ofthe door, while his men threw themselves forward to bind Wallace wherehe lay; but the first man, in his eagerness, striking his head againsta joist in the roof, uttered a fierce oath. The noise roused Wallace,whose wakeful senses had rather slumbered than slep
t, and opening hiseyes, he sprung on his feet.

  A moment told him enemies were around. Seeing him rise, they rushed onhim with imprecations. His eyes blazed like two terrible meteors; and,with a sudden motion of his arm, he seemed to hold the men at adistance, while his god-like figure stood, a tower in collected might.Awe-struck, they paused, but it was only for an instant. The sight ofEdwin, now starting from his sleep, his aghast countenance, while hefelt for his weapons, his cry when he recollected they were gone,inspired the assassins with fresh courage. Battle-axes, swords, andrattling chains, now flashed before the eyes of Wallace. The pointedsteel in many places entered his body, while with part of a brokenbench, which chanced to lie near him, he defended himself and Edwinfrom this merciless host. Edwin, seeing naught but the death of hisfriend before his sight, regardless of himself, made a spring from hisside, and snatched a dagger from the belt of one of the murderers. Theruffian instantly caught the intrepid boy by the throat, and in thathorrible clutch would certainly have deprived him of life had not thelion grasp of Wallace seized the man in his arms, and with a pressurethat made his mouth and nostrils burst with blood, compelled him toforego his hold. Edwin released, Wallace dropped his assailant, who,staggering a few paces, fell senseless to the ground, and instantlyexpired.

  The conflict now became doubly desperate--Edwin's dagger twice defendedthe breast of his friend. Two of his assassins he stabbed to the heart.

  "Murder that urchin!" cried Monteith, who, seeing from without thecarnage of his men, feared that Wallace might yet make his escape.

  "Hah!" cried Wallace, at the sound of Monteith's voice giving such anorder--"then we are betrayed--but not by Heaven! Strike, one of you,that angel youth," cried he, "and you will incur damnation!"

  He spoke to the winds. They poured toward Edwin; Wallace, with agiant's strength, dispersed them as they advanced; the beam of woodfell on the heads, the breasts of his assailants. Himself bleeding atevery pore, he felt not a smart while yet he defended Edwin. But ashout was heard from the door, a faint cry was heard at his side. Helooked around. Edwin lay extended on the ground, with an arrowquivering in his breast, his closing eyes still looking upward to hisfriend. The beam fell from the hands of Wallace. He threw himself onhis knees beside him. The dying boy pressed his hand to his heart, anddropped his head upon his bosom--Wallace moved not, spoke not. Hishand was bathed in the blood of his friend, but not a pulse beatbeneath it; no breath warmed the paralyzed chill of his face as it hungover the motionless lips of Edwin.

  The men were more terrified at this unresisting stillness than at theinvincible prowess of his arm, and stood gazing on him in mute wonder.But Monteith, in whom the fell appetite of avarice had destroyed everyperception of humanity, sent in other ruffians with new orders to bindWallace. They approached him with terror; two of the strongeststealing behind him, and taking advantage of his face being bent uponthat of his murdered Edwin, each in the same moment seized his hands.As they griped them fast, the others advanced eagerly to fasten thebands, he looked calmly up, but it was a dreadful calm; it spoke ofdespair, of the full completion of all woe. "Bring chains," cried oneof the men, "he will burst these thongs."

  "You may bind me with a hair," said he; "I contend no more." The bondswere fastened on his wrists; and then, turning toward the lifeless bodyof Edwin, he raised it gently in his arms. The rosy red of youth yettinged his cold cheek; his parted lips still beamed with the same--butthe breath that had so sweetly informed them, was flown. "Oh! my bestbrother that ever I had," cried Wallace in a sudden transport, andkissing his pale forehead; "my sincerest friend in my greatest need!In thee was truth, manhood, and nobleness; in thee was all man'sfidelity with woman's tenderness. My friend, my brother, oh! would toGod I had died for thee!"