While the little bark bounded over the waves toward the main land, the poor pilgrims of earth who were its freightage, with heavy hearts bent toward each other, intent on the further information they were to receive.
“Here is a list of the murdered chiefs, and of those who are in the dungeons, expecting the like treatment,” continued Graham, holding out a parchment; “it was given to me by my faithful servant.” Wallace took it, but seeing his grandfather’s name at the top, he could look no further; closing the scroll, “Gallant Graham,” said he, “I want no stimulus to urge me to the extirpation I meditate. If the sword of Heaven be with us, not one perpetrator of this horrid massacre shall be alive tomorrow to repeat the deed.”
“What massacre?” Edwin ventured to inquire. Wallace put the parchment into his hand. “A list of the Scottish chiefs murdered on the 18th of June, 1297, in the Judgment Hall of the English Barons at Ayr,” his cheek, paled by the suspense of his mind, now reddened with the hue of indignation; but when the venerated name of his general’s grandfather met his sight, his horror struck eye sought the face of Wallace; it was dark as before, and he was now in earnest discourse with Graham.
Forbearing to interrupt him, Edwin continued to read over the blood-registered names. In turning the page, his eye glanced to the opposite side; and he saw at the head of “A list of prisoners in the dungeons of Ayr,” the name of “Lord Dundaff” and immediately after it, that of “Lord Ruthven!” He uttered a piercing cry; and extending his arms to Wallace, who turned round at so unusual a sound, the terror-struck boy exclaimed, “My father is in their hands! Oh! If you are indeed my brother, fly to Ayr, and save him!”
Wallace took up the open list which Edwin had dropped; he saw the name of Lord Ruthven amongst the prisoners; and folding his arms round this affectionate son, “Compose yourself,” said he, “it is to Ayr I am going; and if the God of Justice be our speed, your father and Lord Dundaff shall not see another day in prison.”
Edwin threw himself on the neck of his friend; “My benefactor!” was all he could utter. Wallace pressed him silently to his bosom.
“Who is this youth?” inquired Graham; “to which of the noble companions of my captive father is he son?”
“To William Ruthven,” answered Wallace; “the valiant lord of the Carse of Gowry. And it is a noble scion from that glorious root. He it was that enabled me to win Dumbarton. Look up, my brother!” cried Wallace, trying to regain so tender a mind from the paralyzing terrors which had seized it; “Look up, and hear me recount the first fruits of your maiden arms, to our gallant friend.
Covered with blushes, arising from anxious emotion, as well as from a happy consciousness of having wont he praises of his general, Edwin rose from his breast, and bowing to Sir John, still leaned his head upon the shoulder of Wallace. That amiable being, who, when seeking to wipe the tear of affliction from the cheek of others, minded not the drops of blood which were distilling in secret from his own heart, began the recital of his first acquaintance with his young Sir Edwin. He enumerated every particular; his bringing the detachment from Bothwell, through the enemy-encircled mountains, to Glenfinlass; his scaling the walls of Dumbarton to make the way smooth for the Scots to ascend; and his after prowess in that well-defended fortress. As Wallace proceeded, the wonder of Graham was raised to a pitch, only to be equaled by his admiration; and taking the hand of Edwin, “Receive me, brave youth,” said he, “as your second brother; Sir William Wallace is your first; but, this night, we shall fight side by side for our fathers; and let that be our bond of kindred.”
Edwin pressed the young chief’s cheek with his innocent lips; “Let us, together, free them;” cried he’ “and then we shall be born twins in happiness.”
“So be it,” cried Graham; “and Sir William Wallace be the sponser of that hour!”
Wallace smiled on them; and turning his head toward the shore, when the vessel doubled a certain point, he saw the beach covered with armed men. To be sure they were his own, he drew his sword, and waved it in the air. At that moment a hundred falchions flashed in the sunbeams, and the shouts of “Wallace!” came loudly on the breeze.
Graham and Edwin started on their feet; the seamen piled their oars; the boat dashed into the breakers-and Wallace, leaping on shore, was received with acclamations by his eager soldiers.
He no sooner landed, than he commenced his march. Murray joined him on the banks of the Irwin; and as Ayr was no very great distance from that river, at two hours before midnight the little army entered Laglane Wood; where they halted, while Wallace, with his chieftains proceeded to reconnoiter the town. The wind swept in gusts through the trees, and seemed by its dismal yellings, to utter warnings of the dreadful retributions he was about to inflict. He had already declared his plan of destruction; and Graham, as a first measure, went to the spot he had fixed on with Macdougal, his servant, as a place of rendezvous. He returned with the man; who informed Wallace, that in honor of the sequestrated lands of the murdered chiefs having been that day partitioned by De Valance amongst certain Southron lords, a grand feast was going on in the governor’s palace. Under the very roof where they had shed the blood of the trusting Scots, they were now keeping this carousal!
“Now, then, is our time to strike!” cried Wallace; and ordering detachments of his men to take possession of the avenues to the town, he set forth with others, to reach the front of the castle gates, by a less frequented path than the main street. The darkness being so great that no object could be distinctly seen, they had not gone far, before Macdougal, who had undertaken to be their guide, discovered by the projection of a hill on the right, that he had lost the road.
“Our swords will find one!” exclaimed Kirkpatrick.
Unwilling to miss any advantage, in a situation where so much was at stake, Wallace gladly hailed a twinkling light, which gleamed from what he supposed the window of a distant cottage. Kirkpatrick, with Macdougal, offered to go forward, and explore what it might be. In a few minutes they arrived at a thatched building; from which, to their surprise, issued the wailing strains of the coronach. Kirkpatrick paused. Its melancholy notes were sung by female voices. Hence, there being no danger in applying to such harmless inhabitants, to learn the way to the citadel, he proceeded to the door; when, intending to knock, the weight of his mailed arm burst open its slender latch, and discovered two poor women, in an inner apartment, wringing their hands over a shrouded corpse. While the chief entered his friends came up. Murray and Graham, struck with sounds never breathed over the vulgar dead, lingered at the porch wondering what noble Scot could be the subject of lamentation in so lowly an abode. The stopping of these two chieftains impeded the steps of Wallace, who was pressing forward, without eye or ear for anything but the object of his search. Kirkpatrick at that moment appeared on the threshold, and without a word, putting forth his hand, seized the arm of his commander, and pulled him into the cottage. Before Wallace could ask the reason of this, he saw a woman run forward with a light in her hand; the beams of which falling on the face of the knight of Ellerslie, with a shriek of joy she rushed toward him, and threw herself upon his neck.
He instantly recognized Elspa, his nurse; the faithful attendant on his grandfather’s declining years! the happy matron who had decked the bridal bed of his Marion! and with an anguish of recollections that almost unmanned him, he returned her affectionate embrace.
“Here he lies!” cried the old woman, drawing him toward the rushy bier; and before he had time to demand, “Who?” she pulled down the shroud and disclosed the body of Sir Ronald Crawford. Wallace gazed on it, with a look of such dreadful import that Edwin, whose anxious eyes then sought his countenance, trembled with a nameless horror. “Oh,” thought he, “to what is this noble soul reserved! Is he alone doomed to extirpate the enemies of Scotland, that every ill falls direct upon his head!”
“Sorry, sorry bier, for the good Lord Ronald!” cried the old woman; “a poor wake to mourn the loss of him who was the benefactor of all the country round! But had I not brought him here, the salt sea must have been his grave.” Here sobs prevented her utterance; but after a short pause, with many vehement lamentations over the virtues of the dead, and imprecations on his murderers, she related that as soon as the woful tidings were brought to Monktown kirk (and brought too by the Southron, who was to take it in possession!) she and the clan’s-folk who would not swear fidelity to the new lord, were driven from the house. She hastened to the bloody theater of massacre; and there beheld the bodies of the murdered chiefs drawn on sledges to the seashore. Elspa knew that of her master, by the scar on his breast, which he had received in the battle of Largs. When she saw corpse after corpse thrown, with a careless hand, into the waves, and the man approached who was to cast the honored chief of Monktown, to the same unhallowed burial, she threw herself frantically on the body, and so moved the man’s compassion, that, taking advantage of the time when his comrades were out of sight, he permitted her to wrap the dead Sir Ronald in her plaid, and so carry him away between her sister and herself. But ere she had raised her sacred burden, the man directed her to seek the venerable head from amongst the others, which lay mingled in a sack; drawing it forth, she placed it beside the body, and then hastily retired with both, to the hovel where Wallace had found her. It was a shepherd’s hut, from which the desolation of the times having long ago driven away its former inhabitant, she had hoped that in so lonely an obscurity, she might have performed without notice, a chieftain’s rites, to the remains of the murdered lord of the very lands on which she wept him. These over, she meant he should be interred in secret by the fathers of a neighboring church, which he had once richly endowed. With these intentions, she and her sister were chanting over him the sad dirge of their country, when Sir Roger Kirkpatrick burst open the door. “Ah!” cried she, as she closed the dismal narrative; “though two lonely women were all they............