The Citadel.
During 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 corselet 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 courtesy to the company, left the room.
On gaining the upper apartment, she threw herself upon 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 the
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? Oh! 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
infatuated 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 the 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 kinsman 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 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
incitement 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 Elidon 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
rose to welcome the re-entrance of Wallace with the Earl of Lennox.
Absorbed in one 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 once 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
deigned 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 toward 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 a 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 toughing 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 displeased me." With this reply he
disappeared. The excuse seemed strange but it was true; for she 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, 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 heart to call 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
side-long 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 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 Abbott of St. Colomba
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 who 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 mouths
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 affections 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 his
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 thoughts, my wishes, 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 now
even 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
offense 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
dispatched 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 toward 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 responsibilities 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 his duty better than 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, the object darted her own severe 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 St. 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
of 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 to 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 toward 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 seagirt 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, rose, and said: "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.