"Oh, no!" cried she, with contemptuous haughtiness; "he is a man, and he knows how to pardon the excesses of love! Look around you, foolish boy, and see how many of our proudest lords have united their fates with women who not only loved them while their husbands lived, but left their homes and children to join their lovers! And what is there in me, a princess of the crowns of Scotland and of Norway--a woman who has had the n.o.bles of both kingdoms at her feet, and frowned upon them all-that I should now be contemned? Is the ingrate for whom alone I ever felt a wish of love--is he to despise me for my pa.s.sion? You mistake, Edwin; you know not the heart of man."

"Not of the common race of men, perhaps," replied he; "but certainly that of Sir William Wallace. Purity and he are too sincerely one for personal vanity to blind his eyes to the deformity of the pa.s.sion you describe. And mean as I am when compared with him, I must aver that, were a married woman to love me, and seek to excuse her frailty, I should see alone her contempt of the principles which are the only impregnable bulwarks of innocence, and shrink from her as I would from pollution."

"Then you declare yourself my enemy, Edwin?"

"No," replied he; "I speak to you as a son; but if you are determined to avow to Sir William Wallace what you have revealed to me, I shall not even observe on what has pa.s.sed, but leave you, unhappy lady, to the pangs I would have spared you."

He rose. Lady Mar wrung her hands in a paroxysm of conviction that what he said was true.

"Then, Edwin, I must despair?"

He looked at her with pity.

"Could you abhor the dereliction that your soul has thus made from duty, and leave him, whom your unwidowed wishes now pursue, to seek you; then I should say that you might be happy; for penitence appeases G.o.d, and shall it not find grace with man?"

"Blessed Edwin," cried she, falling on his neck, and kissing him; "whisper but my penitence to Wallace; teach him to think I hate myself.

Oh, make me that in his eyes which you would wish, and I will adore you on my knees?"

The door opened at this moment, and Lord Ruthven entered. The tears she was profusely shedding on the bosom of his son, he attributed to some conversation she might be holding respecting her deceased lord, and taking her hand, he told her he came to propose her immediate removal from the scene of so many horrors.

"My dear sister," said he, "I will attend you as far as Perth. After that, Edwin shall be your guard to Braemar, and my Janet will stay with you there till time has softened your griefs."

Lady Mar looked at him.

"And where will be Sir William Wallace?"

"Here," answered Ruthven. "Some considerations, consequent to his receiving the French dispatches, will hold him some time longer south of the Forth."

Lady Mar shook her head doubtfully, and reminded him that the chiefs in the citadel had withheld the dispatches.

Lord Ruthven then informed her that, unknown to Wallace, Lord Loch-awe had summoned the most powerful of his friends then near Stirling, and attended by them, was carried on a littler into the citadel. It entered the council-hall, and from that bed of honorable wounds, he threatened the a.s.sembly with instant vengeance from his troops without, unless they would immediately swear fealty to Wallace, and compel Badenoch to give up the French dispatches. Violent tumults were the consequence; but Loch-awe's litter being guarded by a double rank of armed chieftains, and the keep being hemmed round by his men prepared to put to the sword every Scot hostile to the proposition of their lord, the insurgents at last complied, and forced Badenoch to relinquish the royal packet. This effected, Loch-awe and his train returned to the monastery. Wallace refused to resume the dignity he had resigned, the reinvestment of which had been extorted from the lords in the citadel.

"No," said he to Loch-awe; "it is indeed time that I should sink into shades where I cannot be found, since I am become a word of contention amongst my countrymen."

"He was not to be shaken," continued Ruthven; "but seeing matter in the French dispatches that ought to be answered without delay, he yet remains a few days at Falkirk."

"Then we will await him here," cried the countess.

"That cannot be," answered Ruthven, "it would be against ecclesiastical law to detain the sacred dead so long from the grave. Wallace will doubtless visit Braemar, therefore I advise that to-morrow you leave Falkirk."

Edwin seconded this counsel; and fearing to make further opposition, she silently acquiesced. But her spirit was not so quiescent. At night when she went to her cell, her ever wakeful fancy aroused a thousand images of alarm. She remembered the vow that Wallace had made to seek Helen. He had already given up the regency--an office which might have detained him from such a pursuit; and might not a pa.s.sion softer than indignation against the ungrateful chieftains have dictated this act? "Should he love Helen, what is there not to fear?" cried she; "and should he meet her, I am undone?" Racked by jealousy, and goaded by contradicting expectations, she rose from her bed and paced the room in wild disorder. One moment she strained her mind to recollect every gracious look or word from him, and then her imagination glowed with antic.i.p.ated delight. Again she thought of his address to Helen, of his vow in her favor, and she was driven to despair. All Edwin's kind admonitions were forgotten; pa.s.sion alone was awake; and forgetful of her rank and s.e.x, and of her situation, she determined to see Wallace, and appeal to his heart for the last time.

She knew that he slept in an apartment at the other end of the monastery; and that she might pa.s.s thither un.o.bserved, she glided into an opposite cell belonging to a sick monk, and stealing away his cloak, threw it over her, and hurried along the cloisters.

The chapel doors were open. In pa.s.sing, she saw the bier of her lord awaiting the hour of its removal, surrounded by priests, singing anthems for the repose of his soul. No tender recollections, no remorse, knocked at the heart of Lady mar as she sped along. Abandoned all to thoughts of Wallace, she felt not that she had a soul; she acknowledged not that she had a hope, but what centered in the smiles of the man she was hastening to seek.

His door was fastened with a latch; she gently opened it, and found herself in his chamber. She trembled--she scarcely breathed; she looked around; she approached his bed--but he was not there.

Disappointment palsied her heart, and she sunk upon a chair. "Am I betrayed?" said she to herself: "Has that youthful hypocrite warned him hence?" And then again she thought, "But how should Edwin guess that I should venture here? Oh, no, my cruel stars alone are against me!"

She now determined to await his return, and nearly three hours she had pa.s.sed there, enduring all the torments of guilt and misery; but he appeared not. At last, hearing the matinbell, she started up, fearful that her maids might discover her absence. Compelled by some regard to reputation, with an unwilling mind she left the shrine of her idolatry, and once more crossed the cloisters. While again drawing toward the chapel, she saw Wallace himself issue from the door, supporting on his bosom the fainting head of Lady Ruthven. Edwin followed them. Lady Mar pulled the monk's cowl over her face and withdrew behind a pillar.

"Ah!" thought she, "absenting myself from my duty, I fled from thee!"

She listened with breathless attention to what might be said.

Lord Ruthven met them at that instant. "This night's watching by the bier of her brother," said Wallace, "has worn out your gentle lady; we strove to support her through these sad vigils, but at last she sunk."

What Ruthven said in reply, when he took his wife in his arms, the countess could not hear; but Wallace answered, "I have not seen her."

"I left her late in the evening drowned in tears," replied Ruthven, in a more elevated tone, "I therefore suppose that in secret she offers those prayers for her deceased husband, which my tender Janet pours over his grave."

"Such tears," replied Wallace, "are Heaven's own balm; I know they purify the heart whence they flow. Yes; and the prayers we breathe for those we love, unite our souls the closer to theirs. Look up, dear Lady Ruthven," said he, as she began to revive, "look up and hear how you may, while still on earth, retain the society of your beloved brother! Seek his spirit at the footstool of G.o.d. 'Tis thus I live, sister of my most venerated friend! My soul is ever on the wing of heaven, whether in the solitary hour, in joy, or in sorrow, for theeere my treasure lives!"

"Wallace! Wallace," cried Lady Ruthven, looking on his animated countenance with wondering rapture; "and art thou a man of earth and of the sword? Oh! rather say, an angel; lent us here a little while to teach us to live and to die!"

A glowing blush pa.s.sed over the pale but benign cheek of Wallace.

"I am a soldier of Him who was, indeed, brought into the world to show us, by his life and death, how to be virtuous and happy. Know me, by my life, to be his follower; and David himself wore not a more glorious t.i.tle!"

Lady mar, while she contemplated the matchless form before her, exclaimed to herself, "Why is it animated by as faultless a soul? Oh, Wallace! wert thou less excellent, I might hope; but h.e.l.l is in my heart, and heaven in thine!"

She tore her eyes from a view which blasted while it charmed her, and rushed from the cloisters.

Chapter LVII.

Durham.

The sun rose as the funeral procession of the Earl of Mar moved from before the gates of the monastery at Falkirk. Lord Ruthven and Edwin mounted their horses. The maids of the two ladies led them forth toward the litters which were to convey them so long a journey. Lady Ruthven came first, and Wallace placed her tenderly in her carriage.

The countess next appeared, clad in the deep weeds of widowhood. Her child followed in the arms of its nurse. At the sight of the innocent babe, whom he had so often seen pressed to the fond bosom of the father it was now following to his grace, tears rushed into the eyes of Wallace. Lady Mar hid the tumult of her feelings on the shoulder of her maid. He advanced to her respectfully, and handing her to her vehicle, urged her to cherish life for the sake of her child. She threw herself with increased agitation on her pillow, and Wallace, deeming the presence of her babe the surest comforter, laid it tenderly by her side. At that moment, before he had relinquished it, she bent her face upon his hands, and bathing them with tears, faintly murmured, "Oh! Wallace, remember me!" Lord Ruthven rode up to bid adieu to his friend, and the litters moved on. Wallace promised that both he and Edwin should hear of him in the course of a few days; and affectionately grasping the hand of the latter, bade him farewell.

Hear of him they should, but not see him; for it was his determination to set off that night for Durham, where, he was informed, Edward now lay, and, joined by his young queen, meant to sojourn till his wounds were healed. Believing that his presence in Scotland could no longer be serviceable, and would engender continual intestine divisions, Wallace did not hesitate in fixing his course. His first object was to fulfill his vow to Lord Mar. He thought it probable, that Helen might have been carried to the English court; and that in seeking her, he might also attempt an interview with young Bruce; hoping to learn how far he had succeeded in persuading his father to leave the va.s.salage of Edward, and once more dare resuming the specter of his ancestors.

To effect his plan without hinderance, on the disappearance of the funeral cavalcade, Wallace retired to his apartment to address a letter to Lord Ruthven. In this epistle he told the chief that he was going on an expedition which he hoped would prove beneficial to his country; but it was an enterprise of rashness, he would not make any one his companion; he therefore begged Lord Ruthven to teach his friends to consider with candor a flight they might otherwise deem unkind.

All the brother was in his letter to Edwin, conjuring him to prove his affection for his friend by quietly abiding at home till they should meet again in Scotland.

He wrote to Andrew Murray (now Lord Bothwell), addressing him as the first of his compatriots who had struck a blow for Scotland; and, as his dear friend and brother soldier, he confided to his care the valiant troop which had followed him from Lanark. "Tell them," said he, "that in obeying you they still serve with me, they perform their duty to Scotland at home--I abroad; our aim is the same; and we shall meet again at the consummation of our labors."

These letters he inclosed in one to Scrymgeour, with orders to dispatch two of them according to their directions; but that to Murray, Scrymgeour was himself to deliver at the head of the Lanark veterans.

At the approach of twilight Wallace quitted the monastery, leaving his packet with the porter, to present to Scrymgeour when he should arrive at his usual hour. As the chief meant to a.s.sume a border-minstrel's garb, that he might travel the country unrecognized as its once adored regent, he took his way toward a large hollow oak in Tor Wood, where he had deposited his means of disguise. When arrive there he disarmed himself of all but his sword, dirk, and breastplate; he covered his tartan gambeson with a minstrel's ca.s.sock, and staining his bright complexion with the juice of a nut, concealed his brighter locks beneath a close bonnet. Being thus equipped, he threw his harp over his shoulder; and having first, in that solitude, where no eye beheld, no ear heard but that of G.o.d, invoked a blessing on his enterprise, with a buoyant spirit--rejoicing in the power in whose light he moved--he went forth, and under the sweet serenity of a summer night pursued his way along the broom-clad hills of Muiravenside.

All lay in profound rest--not a human creature crossed his path till the carol of the lark summoned the husbandman to his toil, and spread the thymy hills and daisied pastures with herds and flocks. As the lowing of cattle descending to the water, and the bleating of sheep, hailing the morning beam, came on the breeze, mingled with the joyous voices of their herdsmen, calling to each other from afar--as all met the ear of Wallace--his conscious heart could not but whisper: "I have been the happy instrument to effect this! I have restored every man to his paternal fields! I have filled all these honest b.r.e.a.s.t.s with gladness!"

He stopped at a little moss-covered cabin on the burn-side, beneath Craig Castle in Mid-Lothian, and was hospitably entertained by its simple inhabitants. Wallace repaid their kindness with a few ballads, which he sung accompanied by his harp. As he gave the last notes of "King Arthur's Death in Glory," the worthy cotter raised his head from the spade on which he leaned, and asked whether he could not sing the glory of Scotland.

"Our renowned Wallace," said he, "is worth King Arthur and all the stranger knights of his round table, for he not only conquers for us in war, but establishes us in happy peace. Who like him, of all our great captains, ever took such care of the poor as to give them, not only the bread which sustains temporal, but that which supports eternal life?

Sing us then his praises, minstrel, and tarry with us days instead of hours."