Stirling Castle.
The prisoners who had been taken with Montgomery were lodged behind the
town, and the wounded carried into the Abbey of Cambus-Kenneth; but
when Edwin came to move that earl himself, he found him too faint with
loss of blood to sit a horse to Snawdoun. He therefore ordered a
litter; and so conveyed his brave prisoner to that palace of the kings
of Scotland in Stirling.
The priests in Wallace's army not only exercised the Levitical but the
good Samaritan's functions, and they soon obeyed the young knight's
summons to dress the wounds of Montgomery.
Messengers, meanwhile, arrived from Wallace, acquainting his chieftains
in Stirling with the surrender of De Warenne's army. Hence no surprise
was created in the breast of the wounded earl when he saw his commander
enter the palace as the prisoner of the illustrious Scot.
Montgomery held out his hand to the lord warden in silence, and with a
flushed cheek.
"Blush not, my noble friend!" cried De Warenne; "these wounds speak
more eloquently than a thousand tongues, the gallantry with which you
maintained the sword that fate compelled you to surrender. But I,
without a scratch, how can I meet the unconquered Edward? And yet it
was not for myself I feared: my brave and confiding soldiers were in
all my thoughts; for I saw it was not to meet an army I led them, but
against a whirlwind, a storm of war, with which no strength that I
commanded could contend."
While the English generals thus conversed, Edwin's impatient heart
yearned to be again at the side of Wallace; and gladly resigning the
charge of his noble prisoner to Sir Alexander Ramsay, as soon as he
observed a cessation in the conversation of the two earls, he drew near
Montgomery to take his leave.
"Farewell, till we meet again!" said the young earl, pressing his hand;
"you have been a young brother rather than an enemy, to me."
"Because," returned Edwin, "I follow the example of my general, who
would willingly be the friend of all mankind."
Warenne looked at him with surprise: "And who are you, who, in that
stripling form, utters gallant sentiments which might grace the
maturest years?"
With a sweet dignity, Edwin replied, "I am Edwin Ruthven, the adopted
brother of Sir William Wallace."
"And the son of him," asked De Warenne, "who, with Sir William Wallace,
was the first to mount Dumbarton walls?"
At these words the cheeks of Edwin were suffused with a more animated
bloom. At the moment when his courage was distinguished on the heights
of Dumbarton, by the vowed friendship of Wallace, he had found himself
beloved by the bravest and most amiable of beings; and in his light he
felt both warmth and brightness; but this question of De Warenne,
conveyed to him that he had found fame himself; that he was there
publicly acknowledged to be an object not unworthy of being called the
brother of Sir William Wallace!-and, casting down his eyes, beaming
with exultation, from the fixed gaze of De Warenne, he answered, "I am
that happy Ruthven, who had the honor to mount Dumbarton Rock by the
side of my general; and from his hand there received the stroke of
knighthood."
De Warenne rose, much agitated: "If such be the boys of Scotland need
we wonder, when the spirit of resistance is roused in the nation, that
our strength should wither before its men?"
"At least," said Montgomery, whose admiration of what passed seemed to
reanimate his languid faculties, "it deprives defeat of its sting, when
we are conscious we yielded to power that was irresistible. But, my
lord," added he, "if the courage of this youth amazes you, what will
you say ought to be the fate of this country? what to be the crown of
Sir William Wallace's career, when you know the chain of brave hearts
by which he is surrounded? Even tender woman loses the weakness of her
sex when she belongs to him." Earl de Warenne, surprised at the energy
with which he spoke, looked at him with an expression that told him so.
"Yes," continued he, "I witnessed the heroism of Lady Wallace, when
she defended the character of her husband in the midst of an armed
host, and preserved the secret of his retreat inviolate. I saw that
loveliest of women, whom the dastard Heselrigge slew."
"Disgrace to knighthood!" cried Edwin, with indignant vehemence; "if
you were a spectator of that bloody deed, retire from this house; go to
Cambus-Kenneth--anywhere; but leave this city before the injured
Wallace arrives; blast not his eyes with a second sight of one who
could have beheld his wife murdered."
Every eye was now fixed on the commanding figure of the young Edwin,
who stood with the determination of being obeyed breathing in every
look. De Warenne then at once saw the possibility of so gentle a
creature being transformed into the soul of enterprise, into the
fearless and effective soldier.
Lord Montgomery held out his hand to Edwin. "By this right arm, I
swear, noble youth, that had I been on the spot when Heselrigge, lifted
his sword against the breast of Lady Wallace, I would have sheathed my
sword in his. It was before then that I saw that matchless woman; and
offended with my want of severity in the scrutiny I had made at
Ellerslie for its chief. Heselrigge sent me back to Ayr. Arnuf
quarreled with me there, on the same subject; and I immediately retired
in disgust to England."
"Then how? you ought to be Sir Gilbert Hambledon?" replied Edwin; "but
whoever you are, as you were kind to the Lady Marion, I cannot but
regret my late hasty charge; and for which I beseech your pardon."
Montgomery took his hand, and pressed it. "Generous Ruthven, your
warmth is too honorable to need forgiveness. I am that Sir Gilbert
Hambledon; and had I remained so, I should not now be in Scotland. But
in my first interview with the Prince of Wales, after my accession to
the Earldom of Montgomery, his highness told me, it had been rumored
from Scotland that I was disloyal in my heart to my king. 'And to
prove the falsehood of such calumniators,' continued the prince, 'I
appoint you second in command there to the Earl de Warenne.' To have
refused to fight against Sir William Wallace, would have been to have
accused myself of treason. And while I respected the husband of the
murdered Lady Marion, I yet condemned him as an insurgent; and with the
same spirit you follow him in the field, I obeyed the commands of my
sovereign."
"Lord Montgomery," returned Edwin, "I am rejoiced to see one who proves
to me what my general, wronged as he has been, yet always
inculcates--that all the Southrons are not base and cruel! When he
knows who is indeed his prisoner, what recollections will it awaken!
But till you and he again meet, I shall not intimate to him the
melancholy satisfaction he is to enjoy, for, with the remembrances it
will arouse, your presence must bring the antidote."
The brave youth then telling Ramsay in what parts of the palace the
rest of the lords were to be lodged, with recovered composure descended
to the courtyard, to take horse for Tor Wood. He was galloping along,
under the bright light of the moon, when he heard a squadron on full
speed approaching, and presently Murray appeared at its head. "Hurrah,
Edwin!" cried he; "well met! We are come to demand the instant
surrender of the citadel. Hilton's division has surrendered!"
The two barons had indeed come up about half an hour after Earl de
Warenne's division was discomfited. Sir William Wallace had sent
forward to the advancing enemy two heralds, bearing the colors De
Valence and Montgomery, with the captive banner of De Warenne, and
requiring the present division to lay down its army also. The sight of
these standards was sufficient to assure Hilton there was no deceit in
the embassy. The nature of his position precluded retreat; and not
seeing any reason for ten thousand men disputing the day with a power
to whom fifty thousand had just surrendered, he and his compeer, with
the reluctance of veterans, embraced the terms of surrender.
The instant Hilton put his argent banner** into the victor's hand,
Wallace knew that the castle must now be his; he had discomfited all
who could have maintained it against him. Impatient to apprise Lord
Mar and his family of their safety, he dispatched Murray with a
considerable escort to demand its surrender.
**The arms of Hilton are, argent, two bars azure. The charge on those
of Blenkinsopp are three wheat-sheaves; crest, a lion rampant, grasping
a rose. The ruins of the patrimonial castles of these two ancient
barons are still to be seen in the north of England. The author's
revered mother was a descendant from the latter venerable name, united
with that of the brave and erudite race of Adamson, of further north.
Murray gladly obeyed, and now, accompanied by Edwin, with the standards
of Cressingham and De Warenne trailing in the dust, he arrived before
the castle, and summoned the lieutenant to the walls. But that
officer, well aware of what was going to happen, feared to appear.
From the battlements of the keep he had seen the dreadful conflict on
the banks of the Forth--he had seen the thousands of De Warenne pass
before the conqueror. To punish his treachery, in not only having
suffered Cressingham to steal out under the armistice, but upholding
also the breaking of his word to surrender at sunset, the terrified
officer believed that Wallace was now come to put the whole garrison to
the sword.
At the first sight of Murray's approaching squadron, the lieutenant
hurried to Lord Mar, to offer him immediate liberty if he would go
forth to Wallace and treat with him to spare the lives of the garrison.
Closed up in a solitary dungeon, the earl knew naught of what was
occurring without; and when the Southron entered, he expected it was to
lead him again to the death which had been twice averted. But the pale
and trembling lieutenant had no sooner spoken the first word than Mar
discerned it was a suppliant, not an executioner, he saw before him,
and he was even promising that clemency from Wallace, which he knew
dwelt in his heart, when Murray's trumpet sounded.
The lieutenant started, horror-struck. "It is now too late! We have
not made the first overture, and there sounds the death-bell of this
garrison! I saved your life, earl!" cried he, imploringly, to Lord
Mar; "when the enraged Cressingham commanded me to pull the cord which
would have launched you into eternity. I disobeyed him! For my sake,
then, preserve this garrison, and accompany me to the ramparts."
The chains were immediately knocked off the limbs of Lord Mar, and the
lieutenant presenting him with a sword, they appeared together on the
battlements. As the declining moon shone on their backs, Murray did
not discern that it was his uncle who mounted the walls; but calling to
him in a voice which declared there was no appeal, pointed to the
humbled colors of Edward, and demanded the instant surrender of the
citadel.
"Let it be, then with the pledge of Sir William Wallace's mercy?" cried
the venerable earl.
"With every pledge, Lord Mar," returned Murray, now joyfully
recognizing his uncle, "which you think safe to give."
"Then the keys of the citadel are yours," cried the lieutenant; "I only
ask the lives of my garrison."
This was granted, and immediately preparations were made for the
admission of the Scots. As the enraptured Edwin heard the heavy chains
of the portcullis drawn up, and the massy bolts of the huge doors
grating in their guards, he thought of his mother's liberty, of his
father's joy, in pressing her again in his arms; and hastening to the
tower where Lord Ruthven held watch over the now sleeping De Valance,
he told him all that had happened. "Go, my father," added he; "enter
with Murray, and be the first to open the prison doors of my mother."
Lord Ruthven embraced his son. "My dear Edwin! this sacrifice to my
feelings is worthy of you. But I have a duty to perform, superior even
to the tenderest private ones. I am planted hereby my commander; and
shall I quit my station, for any gratification, till he gives me leave?
No, my son! Be you my representative to your mother; and while my
example teaches you, above all earthly considerations, to obey your
honor, those tender embraces will show her what I sacrifice to duty."
Edwin no longer urged his father, and leaving his apartment, flew to
the gate of the inner ballium. It was open; and Murray already stood
on the platform before the keep, receiving the keys to the garrison.
"Blessed sight!" cried the earl, to his nephew. "When I put the banner
of Mar into your unpracticed hand, little could I expect that, in the
course of four months, I should see my brave Andrew receive the keys of
proud Stirling from its commander!"
Murray smiled, while his plumed head bowed gratefully to his uncle, and
turning to the lieutenant, "Now," said he, "lead me to the Ladies Mar
and Ruthven that I may assure them they are free."
The gates of the keep were now unclosed, and the lieutenant conducted
his victors along a gloomy passage, to a low door, studded with knobs
of iron. As he drew the bolt, he whispered to Lord Mar, "These
severities are the hard policy of Governor Cressingham."
He pushed the door slowly open, and discovered a small, miserable
cell--its walls, of rugged stone, having no other covering than the
incrustations which time, and many a dripping winter, had strewn over
their vaulted service. On the ground, on a pallet of straw, lay a
female figure in a profound sleep. But the light which the lieutenant
held, streaming full upon the uncurtained slumberer, she started, and,
with a shriek of terror at the sight of so many armed men, discovered
the pallid features of the Countess of Mar. With an anguish which
hardly the freedom he was going to bestow could ameliorate, the earl
rushed forward, and, throwing himself beside her, caught her in his
arms.
"Are we, then, to die?" cried she, in a voice of horror. "Has Wallace
abandoned us? Are we to perish? Heartless-heartless man!"
Overcome by his emotions, the earl could only strain her to his breast
in speechless agitation. Edwin saw a picture of his mother's
sufferings, in the present distraction of the countess; and he felt his
powers of utterance locked up; but Lord Andrew, whose ever-light heart
was gay the moment he was no longer unhappy, jocosely answered, "My
fair aunt, there are many hearts to die by your eyes before that day!
and, meanwhile, I come from Sir William Wallace--to set you free!"
The name of Wallace, and the intimation that he had sent to set her
free, drove every former thought of death and misery from her mind;
again the ambrosial gales of love seemed to breathe around her--she saw
not her prison walls; she felt herself again in his presence; and in a
blissful trance, rather endured than participated in the warm
congratulations of her husband on their mutual safety.
Edwin and Murray turned to follow the lieutenant, who, preceding them,
stopped at the end of the gallery. "Here," said he, "is Lady Ruthven's
habitation; and--alas! not better than the countess'." While he spoke,
he threw open the door, and discovered its sad inmate also asleep. But
when the glad voice of her son pierced her ear--when his fond embraces
clung to her bosom, her surprise and emotions were almost
insupportable. Hardly crediting her senses, that he whom she had
believed was safe in the cloisters of St. Colomba, could be within the
dangerous walls of Stirling; that it was his mailed breast that pressed
against her bosom; that it was his voice she heard exclaiming, "Mother,
we come to give you freedom!" all appeared to her like a dream of
madness.
She listened, she felt him, she found her cheek wet with his rapturous
tears. "Am I in my right mind?" cried she, looking at him with a
fearful, yet overjoyed countenance; "am I not mad? Oh! tell me," cried
she, turning to Murray, and the lieutenant, "is this my son that I see,
or has terror turned my brain?"
"It is indeed your son, your Edwin, my very self," returned he, alarmed
at the expression of her voice and countenance. Murray gently
advanced, and kneeling down by her, respectfully took her hand. "He
speaks truth, my dear madam. It is your son Edwin. He left his
convent, to be a volunteer with Sir William Wallace. He has covered
himself with honor on the walls of Dumbarton; and here also a sharer in
his leader's victories, he is come to set you free."
At this explanation, which, being given in the sober language of
reason, Lady Ruthven believed, she gave way to the full happiness of
her soul, and falling on the neck of her son, embraced him with a flood
of tears: "And thy father, Edwin, where is he? Did not the noble
Wallace rescue him from Ayr?"
"He did, and he is here." Edwin then repeated to his mother the
affectionate message of his father, and the particulars of his release.
Perceiving how happily they were engaged, Murray, now with a flutter
in his own bosom, rose from his knees, and requested the lieutenant to
conduct him to Lady Helen Mar.
His guide led the way by a winding staircase into a stone gallery,
where letting Lord Andrew into a spacious apartment, divided in the
midst by a vast screen of carved cedar-wood, he pointed to a curtained
entrance. "In that chamber," said he, "lodges the Lady Helen."
"Ah, my poor cousin," exclaimed Murray; "though she seems not to have
tasted the hardships of her parents, she has shared their misery, I do
not doubt." While he spoke, the lieutenant bowed in silence, and
Murray entered alone. The chamber was magnificent, and illumined by a
lamp which hung from the ceiling. He cautiously approached the bed,
fearing too hastily to disturb her, and gently pulling aside the
curtains, beheld vacancy. An exclamation of alarm had almost escaped
him, when observing a half-open door at the other side of the
apartment, he drew toward it, and there beheld his cousin, with her
back to him, kneeling before a crucifix. She spoke not, but the fervor
of her action manifested how earnestly she prayed. He moved behind
her, but she heard him not; her whole soul was absorbed in the success
of her petition; and at last raising her clasped hands in a paroxysm of
emotion, she exclaimed,-"If that trumpet sounded the victory of the
Scots, then, Power of Goodness! receive thy servant's thanks. But if
De Warenne have conquered, where De Valence has failed; if all whom I
love be lost to me here, take me then to thyself, and let my freed
spirit fly to their embraces in heaven!"
"Ay, and on earth too, thou blessed angel!" cried Murray, throwing
himself toward her. She started from her knees, and with such a cry as
the widow of Sarepta uttered when she embraced her son from the dead,
Helen threw herself on the bosom of her cousin, and closed her eyes in
a blissful swoon--for even while every outward sense seemed fled, the
impression of joy played about her heart; and the animated throbbings
of Murray's breast, while he pressed her in his arms, at last aroused
her to recollection. Her glistening and uplifted eyes told all the
happiness, all the gratitude of her soul.
"My father? All are safe?" demanded she.
"All, my best beloved!" answered Murray, forgetting in his powerful
emotions of his heart, that what he felt, and what he uttered, were
beyond even a cousin's limits: "My uncle, the countess, Lord and Lady
Ruthven--all are safe."
"And Sir William Wallace?" cried she; "you do not mention him. I hope
no ill-"
"He is conqueror here!" interrupted Murray. "He has subdued every
obstacle between Berwick and Stirling; and he has sent me hither to set
you and the rest of the dear prisoners free."
Helen's heart throbbed with a new tumult as he spoke. She longed to
ask whether the unknown knight from whom she had parted in the hermit's
cell, had ever joined Sir William Wallace. She yearned to know that he
yet lived. At the thought of the probability of his having fallen in
some of these desperate conflicts, her soul seemed to gasp for
existence; and dropping her head on her cousin's shoulder, "Tell me,
Andrew," said she, and there she paused, with an emotion for which she
could not account to herself.
"Of what would my sweet cousin inquire?" asked Murray, partaking her
agitation.
"Nothing particular," said she, covered with blushes; "but did you
fight alone in these battles? Did no other knight but Sir William
Wallace?"
"Many, dearest Helen," returned Murray, enraptured at a solicitude
which he appropriated to himself. "Many knights joined our arms. All
fought in a manner worthy of their leader, and thanks to Heaven, none
have fallen."
"Thanks, indeed," cried Helen; and with a hope she dared hardly whisper
to herself, of seeing the unknown knight in the gallant train of the
conqueror, she falteringly said, "Now, Andrew, lead me to my father."
Murray would perhaps have required a second bidding, had not Lord Mar,
impatient to see his daughter, appeared with the countess at the door
of the apartment. Hastening toward them, she fell on the bosom of her
father; and while she bathed his face and hands with her glad tears,
he, too, wept, and mingled blessings with his caresses. No coldness
here met his paternal heart: no distracting confusions tore her from
his arms; no averted looks, by turns, alarmed and chilled the bosom of
tenderness. All was innocence and duty in Helen's breast; and every
ingenuous action showed its affection and its joy. The estranged heart
of Lady Mar had closed against him; and though he suspected not its
wanderings, he felt the unutterable difference between the warm
transports of his daughter and the frigid gratulations forced from the
lips of his wife.
Lady Mar gazed with a weird frown on the lovely form of Helen, as she
wound her exquisitely turned arms round the earl in filial tenderness.
Her bosom, heaving in the snowy whiteness of virgin purity; her face,
radiant with the softest blooms of youth; all seemed to frame an object
which malignant fiends had conjured up to blast her stepdame's hope.
"Wallace will behold these charms!" cried her distracted spirit to
herself, "and then, where am I?"
While her thoughts thus followed each other, she unconsciously darted
looks on Helen, which, if an evil eye had any bewitching power, would
have withered all her beauties. At one of these portentous moments,
the glad eyes of Helen met her glance. She started with horror. It
made her remember how she had been betrayed, and all that she had
suffered from Soulis. But she could not forget that she had also been
rescued; and with that blessed recollection, the image of her preserver
rose before her. At this gentle idea, her alarmed countenance took a
softer expression; and, tenderly sighing, she turned to her father's
question of "How she came to be with Lady Ruthven, when he had been
taught by Lord Andrew to believe her safe at St. Fillan's?"
"Yes," cried Murray, throwing herself on a seat beside her, "I found in
your letter to Sir William Wallace, that you had been betrayed from
your asylum by some traitor Scot; and but for the fullness of my joy at
our present meeting, I should have inquired the name of the villian!"
Lady Mar felt a deadly sickness at her heart, on hearing that Sir
William Wallace was already so far acquainted with her daughter as to
have received a letter from her; and in amazed despair, she prepared to
listen to what she expected would bring a death-stroke to her hopes.
They had met--but how?--where? They wrote to each other. Then, far
indeed had proceeded that communication of hearts, which was now the
aim of her life--and she was undone! Helen glanced at the face of Lady
mar, and observing its changes, regarded them as corroborations of her
having been the betrayer. "If conscience disturbs you thus," thought
Helen, "let it rend your heart, and perhaps remorse may follow!"
As the tide of success seemed so full for the patriot Scots, Helen no
longer feared that her cousin would rashly seek a precarious vengeance
on the traitor Soulis, when he might probably soon have an opportunity
of making it certain at the head of an army. She therefore commenced
her narrative from the time of Murray's leaving her at the priory, and
continued it to the hour in which she had met her father, a prisoner in
the streets of Stirling. As she proceeded, the indignation of the earl
and of Murray against Soulis became vehement. The nephew was full of
immediate personal revenge. But the father, with arguments similar to
those which had suggested themselves to his daughter, calmed the
lover's rage, for Murray now felt that fire as well as a kinsman's; and
reseated himself with repressed, though burning resentment, to listen
to the remainder of her relation.
The quaking conscience of Lady mar did indeed vary her cheeks with a
thousand dyes, when, as Helen repeated part of her conversation with
Macgregor's wife, Murray abruptly said, "Surely that woman could name
the traitor who betrayed us into the hands of our enemies! Did she not
hint it?"
Helen cast down her eyes, that even a glance might not overwhelm with
insupportable shame the already trembling countess. Lady Mar saw that
she was acquainted with her guilt, and expecting no more mercy than she
knew she would show to Helen in the like circumstances, she hastily
rose from her chair, internally vowing vengeance against her triumphant
daughter and hatred of all mankind. But Helen thought she might have
so erred, from a wife's alarm for the safety of the husband she
professed to doat on; and this dutiful daughter determined never to
accuse her.
While all the furies raged in the breast of the guilty woman, Helen
simply answered, "Lord Soulis would be weak as he is vile, to trust a
secret of that kind with a servant;" then hurried on to the relation of
subsequent events. The countess breathed again; and almost deceiving
herself with the idea that Helen was indeed ignorant of her treachery,
listened with emotions of another kind, when she heard of the rescue of
her daughter-in-law. She saw Wallace in that brave act! But as Helen,
undesignedly to herself, passed over the parts in their conversation
which had most interested her, and never named the graces of his
person, Lady mar thought, that to have viewed Wallace with so little
notice would have been impossible; and therefore was glad of such a
double conviction, that he and her daughter had never met, which seemed
verified when Helen said that the unknown chief had promised to join
his arms with those of Wallace.
Murray had observed Helen while she spoke, with an impression at his
heart that made it pause. Something in this interview had whispered to
him what he had never dreamed before--that she was dearer to him than
fifty thousand cousins. And while the blood flushed and retreated in
the complexion of Helen, and her downcast eyes refused to show what was
passing there, while she hastily ran over the circumstances of her
acquaintance with the stranger knight, Murray's own emotions declared
the secret of hers; and with a lip as pale as her own, he said, "But
where is this brave man? He cannot have yet joined us, for surely he
would have told Wallace or myself that he came from you?"
"I warned him not to do so," replied she, "for fear that your
indignation against my enemies, my dear cousin, might have precipitated
you into dangers to be incurred for our country only."
"Then, if he had joined us," replied Murray, rising from his seat, "you
will probably soon known who he is. To-morrow morning Sir William
Wallace will enter the citadel, attended by his principal knights; and
in that gallant company you must doubtless discover the man who had
laid such obligations on us all by your preservation."
Murray's feelings told him that glad should he be, if the utterance of
that obligation would repay it!
Helen herself knew not how to account for the agitation which shook her
whenever she adverted to her unknown preserver. At the time of the
hermit's friend (the good lay brother), having brought her to Alloa,
when she explained to Lady Ruthven the cause of her strange arrival,
she had then told her story with composure, till she mentioned her
deliverer; but in that moment, for the first time she felt a confusion
which disordered the animation with which she described his patriotism
and his bravery. But it was natural, she thought, that gratitude for a
recent benefit should make her heart beat high. It was something like
the enthusiasm she had felt for Wallace on the rescue of her father,
and she was satisfied. But a few days of quiet at Alloa had recovered
her health from the shock it had received in the recent scenes, and she
proposed to her aunt to send some trusty messenger to inform the
imprisoned earl at Dumbarton of her happy refuge; and Lady Ruthven in
return had urged the probability that the messenger would be
intercepted, and so her asylum be discovered, saying, "Let it alone,
till this knight of yours, by performing his word, calls you to declare
his honorable deeds. Till then, Lord Mar, ignorant of your danger,
needs no assurance of your safety."
This casual reference to the knight had then made the tranquilized
heart of Helen renew its throbbings, and turning from her aunt with an
acquiescing reply, she retired to her own apartment to quell the
unusual and painful blushes she felt burning on her cheeks. Why she
should feel thus she could not account, "unless," said she to herself,
"I fear that my suspicion may be guessed at; and should my words or
looks betray the royal Bruce to any harm, that moment of undesigned
ingratitude would be the last of my life."
This explanation seemed ample to herself. And henceforth avoiding all
mention of her preserver in her conversations with Lady Ruthven, she
had confined the subject to her own breast; and thinking that she
thought of him more by her intention to speak of him less, she wondered
not that whenever she was alone his image immediately rose in her mind,
his voice seemed to sound in her ears, and even as the summer air
wafted its soft fragrance over her cheek, she would turn as if she felt
that breath which had so gently brushed her to repose. She would then
start and sigh, and repeat his words to herself, but all was serene in
her bosom. For it seemed as if the contemplation of so much loveliness
of soul in so noble a form, soothed instead of agitated her heart.
"What a king will he be?" thought she; "with what transport would the
virtuous Wallace set the Scottish crown on so noble a brow."
Such were her meditations and feelings, when she was brought a prisoner
to Stirling. And when she heard of the victories of Wallace, she could
not but think that the brave arm of her knight was there, and that he,
with the renowned champion of Scotland, would fly, on the receipt of
her letter, to Stirling, there to repeat the valiant deeds of
Dumbarton. The first blast of the Scottish trumpet under the walls
found her, as she had said, upon her knees, and kept her there, for
hardly with any intermission, with fast and prayer did she kneel before
the altar of Heaven--till the voice of Andrew Murray at midnight called
her to freedom and to happiness.
Wallace, and perhaps her nameless hero with him, had again conquered!
His idea dwelt in her heart and faltered on her tongue; and yet, in
reciting the narrative of her late sufferings to her father, when she
came to the mentioning of the stranger's conduct to her--with an
apprehensive embarrassment she felt her growing emotions as she drew
near the subject; and, hurrying over the event, she could only excuse
herself for such new perturbations by supposing that the former treason
of Lady Mar now excited her alarm, with fear she should fix it on a new
object. Turning cold at an idea so pregnant with horror, she hastily
passed from the agitating theme to speak of De Valence and the respect
with which he had treated her during her imprisonment. His courtesy
had professed to deny nothing to her wishes except her personal liberty
and any conference with her parents or aunt. Her father's life, he
declared it was altogether out of his power to grant. He might suspend
the sentence, but he could not abrogate it.
"Yes," cried the earl, "though false and inflexible, I must not accuse
him of having been so barbarous in his tyranny as Cressingham. For it
was not until De Valence was taken prisoner that Joanna and I were
divided. Till then we were lodged in decent apartments, but on that
event Cressingham tore us from each other, and threw us into different
dungeons. My sister Janet I never saw since the hour we were separated
in the street of Stirling until the awful moment in which we met on the
roof of this castle--the moment when I expected to behold her and my
wife die before my eyes!"
Helen now learned, for the first time, the base cruelties which had
been exercised on her father and his family since the capture of De
Valence. She had been exempted from sharing them by the fears of
Cressingham, who, knowing that the English earl had particular views
with regard to her, durst not risk offending him by outraging one whom
he had declared himself determined to protect.
During part of this conversation, Murray withdrew to bring Lady Ruthven
and her son to share the general joy of full domestic reunion. The
happy Edwin and his mother having embraced these dear relatives with
yet more tender affections yearning in their bosoms, accompanied Murray
to the door of the barbican, which contained Lord Ruthven. They
entered on the wings of conjugal and filial love; but the for once
pensive Lord Andrew, with a slow and musing step, returned into the
castle to see that all was safely disposed for the remainder of the
night.