The march of De Valence from the castle having proved that no suspicion of any of its late inhabitants being still in the neighborhood remained with its usurpers, Grimsby thought he might depart in safety; and next morning he begged permission of the prior to commence his journey. “I am anxious to quit a land,” said he, “where my countrymen are committing violences which make me blush at the name of Englishman.”
Murray put a purse of gold into the soldier’s hand, while the prior covered his armor with a pilgrim’s gown. Grimsby, with a respectful bow, returned the gift; “I cannot take money from you, my lord. But bestow on me the sword at your side, and that I will preserve forever.”
Murray took it off, and gave it to the soldier. “Let us exchange, my brave friend!” said he; “give me yours, and it shall be a memorial to me of having found virtue in an Englishman.”
Grimsby unlocked his rude weapon in a moment, and as he put the iron hilt into the young Scot’s hand, a tear stood in his eye: “When you raise this sword against my countrymen, think on Grimsby, a faithful, though humble soldier of the cross, and spare the blood of all who ask for mercy.”
Murray looked a gracious assent, for the tear of mercy was infectious. Without speaking, he gave the good soldier’s hand a parting grasp; and with regret that superior claims called so brave a man from his side, he saw him leave the monastery.
The mourner banquets on memory; making that which seems the poison of life, its ailment. During the hours of regret we recall the images of departed joys; and in weeping over each tender remembrance, tears so softly shed embalm the wounds of grief. To be denied the privilege of pouring forth our love and our lamentations over the grave of one who in life was our happiness, is to shut up the soul of the survivor in a solitary tomb, where the bereaved heart pines in secret till it breaks with the fullness of uncommunicated sorrow; but listen to the mourner, give his feelings way, and, like the river rolling from the hills into the valley, they will flow with a gradually gentler stream, till they become lost in time’s wide ocean.
So Murray judged when the poor old harper, finding himself alone with him, again gave loose to his often-recapitulated griefs. He wept like an infant; and recounting the afflictions of his master, while bewailing the disasters at Bothwell, implored Murray to go without delay to support the now almost friendless Wallace. Murray was consoling him with the assurance that he would set off for the mountains that very evening, when the prior returned to conduct Halbert to a cell appointed for his novitiate. The good priest had placed one of his most pious fathers there, to administer both temporal and spiritual cordials to the aged sufferer.
The sorrowing domestic of Wallace being thus disposed of, the prior and Murray remained together, consulting on the safest means of passing to the Cartlane hills. A lay brother whom the prior had sent in pursuit of Helen’s fifty warriors, to apprise them of the English being in the craigs, at this juncture entered the library. He informed the father that, secure in his religious garb, he had penetrated many of the Cartlane defiles, but could neither see nor hear anything of the party. Every glen or height was occupied by the English: and from a woman, of whom he begged a draught of milk, he had learned how closely the mountains were invested. The English commander, in his zeal to prevent provisions being conveyed to Wallace and his famishing garrison, had stopped a procession of monks bearing a dead body to the sepulchral cave of St. Columba. He would not allow them to ascend the heights until he had examined whether the bier really bore a corpse, or was a vehicle to carry food to the beleaguered Scots.
In the midst of this information, the prior and his friends were startled by a shout, and soon after a tumult of voices, in which might be distinguished the cry of “A gallows for the traitor!”
“Our brave Englishman has fallen into their hands,” cried Murray, hastening toward the door.
“What would you do?” interrupted the prior, holding him. “Your single arm could not save the soldier. The cross has more power; I will seek these violent men. Meanwhile stay here, as you value the lives of all in the convent.”
Murray had now recollected himself, and acquiesced. The prior took the crucifix from the altar, and ordering the porter to throw open the great doors (near which the incessant shouting seemed to proceed), he appeared before a turbulent band of soldiers, who were dragging a man along, fast bound with their leathern belts. Blood trickling from his face fell on the hands of the ruthless wretches, who, with horrid yells, were threatening him with instant death.
The prior, raising the cross, rushed in among them, and, in the name of the blessed Son who died on that tree, bade them stand! The soldiers trembled before the holy majesty of his figure, and at his awful adjuration. The prior looked on the prisoner, but he did not see the dark locks of the Englishman; it was the yellow hair of Scotland that mingled with the blood on his forehead.
“Whither do you hurry that wounded man?”
“To his death,” answered a surly fellow.
“What is his offense?”
“He is a traitor.”
“How has he proved it?”
“He is a Scot, and he belongs to the disloyal Lord of Mar. This bugle, with its crowned falcon, proves it,” added the Southron, holding up the very bugle which the earl had sent by Halbert to Wallace, and which was ornamented with the crest of Mar wrought in gold.
“That this has been Lord Mar’s,” replied the prior, “there is no doubt; but may not this man have found it? Or may it not have been given to him by the earl, before that chief incurred the displeasure of King Edward? Which of you would think it just to be made to die because your friend was condemned to the scaffold? Unless you substantiate your charge against this man, by a better proof than this bugle, his death would be a murder, which the Lord of life will requite in the perdition of your souls.” As the father spoke, he again elevated the cross: the men turned pale.
“I am a minister of Christ,” continued he, “and must be the friend of justice. Release, therefore, that wounded man to me. Before the altar of the Searcher of all hearts he shall confess himself; and if I find that he is guilty unto death, I promise you by the holy St. Fillan, to release him to your commanding officer, and so let justice take its course. But if he proves innocent, I am the soldier of Christ, and no monarch on earth shall wrest his children from the protection of the church.”
While he spoke, the men who held the prisoner let go their hold, and the prior stretching out his hand, gave him to a party of monks to conduct into the convent. Then, to convince the soldiers that it was the man’s life he sought to save, and not the spoil, he returned the golden bugle, and bade him depart in peace.
Awed by the father’s address, and satisfied with the money and arms of which they had rifled the stranger, the marauders retreated; determining, indeed, to say nothing of the matter to the officer in the castle, lest he should demand the horn; and, elated with the present booty, they marched off to pursue their plundering excursion. Bursting into yeomen’s houses and peasants’ huts, stripping all of their substance who did or did not swear fealty to Edward; thus robbing the latter, and exacting contributions from the former; while vain prayers for mercy and unanswered cries for redress echoed dolefully through the vale of Bothwell, they sped gayly on, as if murder were pastime and rapine honor.
The prior, on returning into the convent, ordered the gates to be bolted. When he entered the chapter-house, finding the monks had already bound up the wounds of the stranger, he made a sign for the brethren to withdraw: and then, approaching the young man, “My son,” said he, in a mild tone, “you heard my declaration to the men from whom I took you! Answer me the truth and you shall find that virtue or repentance have alike a refuge in the arms of the church. As I am its servant, no man need fear to confide in me............