Guided by Ker, Murray led his followers over the Lanark Hills, by the most untrodden paths; and hence avoided even the sight of a Southron soldier.

Cheered by so favourable a commencement of their expedition, they even felt no dismay when, in the gloom of the evening, Ker descried a body of armed men at a distance, sitting round a fire at the foot of a beetling rock which guards the western entrance to the Cartlane Craigs. Murray ordered his men to proceed under covert of the bushes; and then making the signal (concerted in case of such dilemma), they stuck their iron crows into the interstices of the cliff, and catching at the branches which grew out of its precipitous side, with much exertion, but in perfect silence, at last gained the summit. That effected, they pursued their way with the same caution, till after a long march, and without encountering a human being, they reached the base of the huge rock which Wallace had made his fortress.

Ker, who expected to find it surrounded by the English army, was amazed at the deathlike solitude. “The place is deserted,” cried he. “My brave friend, compelled by the extremity of his little garrison, has been obliged to surrender.”

“We will ascend and see,” was Murray’s answer.

Ker led round the rock to the most accessible point; and, mounting by the projecting stones, with some difficulty gained the top. Silence pervaded every part; and the rugged cavities at the summit, which had formed the temporary quarters of his comrades, were lonely. On entering the recess where Wallace used to seek a few minutes’ slumber, the moon, which shone full into the cave, discovered something bright lying in a distant corner. Ker hastily approached it, recollecting what means of escape, he would leave some weapon as a sign; a dagger, if necessity drove him to the south point, where he must fight his way through the valley; an arrow, if he could effect it without observation, by the north, as he should then seek an asylum for his exhausted followers in the far-of wilds of Glenfinlass.

It was the iron head of an arrow which the moon had silvered; and Ker, catching it up, with a gladdened countenance exclaimed, “He is safe! this calls us to Glenfinlass.” He then explained to Murray what had been the arrangement of Wallace respecting this sign, and without hesitation the young lord decided to follow him up that track.

Turning toward the northern part of the cliff, they came to spot beneath which had been the strongest guard of the enemy, but now, like the rest, it was entirely abandoned. A narrow winding path led from this rocky platform to a fall of water, rearing and rushing by the mouth of a large cavern. After they had descended the main craig, they clambered over the top of this cave, and, entering upon another sweep of rugged hills, commenced a rapid march.

Traversing the lower part of Stirlingshire, they crossed Graham’s Dike;17 and pursuing their course westward, left Stirling Castle far to the right. They ascended the Ochil Hills, and proceeding along the wooded heights which overhang the banks of Teith, forded that river, and entered at once into the broad valley which opened to them a distant view of Ben Lomond and Ben Ledi.

17 The great wall of Severus, which runs between Abercorn and Kirkpatrick, being attacked by the Scotts at the time the Romans abandoned Britain, a huge breach was made in it by Graham (or Greame), the uncle of the young king of Scots. By this achievement he conquered the whole of the country as far as the Cheviots, and the wall of Severus has since been called Graham’s Dike-(1809.)

“There,” exclaimed Ker, extending his hand toward the cloud-capped Ledi, “beneath the shadow of that mountain, we shall find the light of Scotland, our dear master in arms!”

At this intimation, the wearied Murrays-like seamen long harassed on a tempestuous ocean at sight of a port-uttered a shout of joy; and hastening forward with renovated strength, met a foaming river in their path. Despising all obstacles, they rushed in, and, buffeting the waves, soon found a firm footing on the opposite shore. The sun shone cheerily above their heads, illuminating the umbrageous sides of the mountains with a dewy splendor, while Ben Ledi, the standard of their hope, seemed to wave them on, as the white clouds streamed from its summit, or, rolling down its dark sides, floated in strange visionary shapes over the lakes beneath.

When the little troop halted on the shore of Loch Venachoir, the mists which had lingered on the brow of Ledi slowly descended into the valley; and covering the mouth of the pass that led from the loch, seemed to shut them at once between the mountain and that world of waters. Ker, who had never been in these tracks before, wondered at their sublimity, and became alarmed lest they should lose their way amid such infinite windings. But Murray, who remembered having once explored them with his father, led promptly forward by a steep, rough road in the side of the mountain. As they clung by the slippery rocks which overhung the lake, its mists dissolved into a heavy shower, and, by degrees clearing away, discovered the shining heads of Ben Lomond and Ben Chochan.

The party soon entered a precipitous labyrinth of craigs; and, passing onward, gradually descended amid pouring torrents, and gaping chasms overlaced with branching trees, till the augmented roar of waters intimated to Murray, they drew near the great fall of Glenfinlass. The river, though rushing on its course with the noise of thunder, was scarcely discerned through the thick forest which groaned over its waves. Here towered a host of stately pines; and there the lofty beeches, birches, and mountain-oak, bending over the flood, interwove their giant arms; forming an arch so impenetrable, that while the sun brightened the tops of the mountains, all beneath lay in deepest midnight.

The awful entrance to this sublime valley struck the whole party with a feeling that made them pause. It seemed as it to these sacred solitudes, hidden in the very bosom of Scotland, no hostile foot dared intrude. Murray looked at Ker. “We go, my friend, to arouse the genius of our country! Here are the native fastnesses of Scotland; and from this pass the spirit will issue that is to bid her enslaved sons and daughters be free.”

They entered, and with beating hearts pursued their way along the western border of Loch Lubnaig, till the royal heights of Craignacoheilg showed their summits, covered with heath and many an ivied turret. The forest, stretching far over the valley, lost its high trees in the shadows of the surrounding mountains, and told them they were now in the center of Glenfinlass.

Ker put his bugle to his lips, and sounded the pibroch of Ellerslie. A thousand echoes returned the notes; and after a pause, which allowed their last response to die away, the air was answered by a horn from the heights of Cragnacoheilg. An armed man then appeared on the rock, leaning forward. Ker drew near, and taking off his bonnet, called aloud: “Stephen! it is William Ker who speaks. I come with the Lord Andrew Murray of Bothwell, to the support of our commander, Sir William Wallace.”

At these words, Stephen placed his bugle to his mouth, and in a few minutes the rock was covered with the members of its little garrison. Women and children appeared, shouting with joy; and the men, descending the side near the glen, hastened to bid their comrade welcome. One advanced toward Murray, whom he instantly recognized to be Sir Roger Kirkpatrick of Torthorald. The chiefs saluted each other; and Lord Andrew pointed to his men: “I have brought,” said he, “these few brave fellows to the aid of Sir William Wallace. They should have been more, but for new events of Southron outrage. Yet I am impatient to lead them to the presence of my uncle’s preserver.”

Kirkpatrick’s answer disappointed the eager spirit of the young warrior: “I am sorry, brave Murray, that you have no better knight to receive you than myself. I and the gallant chief have not yet met; but I am in arms for him; and the hour of retribution for all our injuries, I trust, is at hand.”

“But where is Sir William Wallace?” demanded Murray.

“Gone toward the Forth, to rouse that part of sleeping Scotland. If all he meet have my spirit, they will not require a second call. Now is the time to aim the blow; I shall ever give thanks to the accident which brought me the welcome news, that an arm is raised to strike it home.”

As he spoke, he led Murray to the rampart-like cliffs which crown the summit of Craignacoheilg. In the midst stood a tower, which had once been a favorite hunting-lodge of the great King Fergus. There Kirkpatrick joyfully greeted his guest a second time: “This,” said he, “is the far-famed lodge of the three kings: here did our lion, Fergus, attended by his royal allies, Durstus the Pict, and Dionethus the Briton, spread his board during their huntings in Glenfinlass! And here eight hundred years ago, did the same heroic prince form the plans which saved his kingdom from a foreign yoke! On the same spot we will lay ours; and in their completion, rescue Scotland from a tyranny more intolerable than that which menaced him. Yes, Murray; there is not a stone in this building that does not call aloud to us to draw the sword, and hold it unsheathed till our country be free.”

“And by the ghost of that same Fergus, I swear,” exclaimed Murray, “that my honest claymore shall never shroud its head while an invader be left alive in Scotland.”

Kirkpatrick caught him in his arms. “Brave son of the noble Bothwell, thou art after mine own heart! The blow which the dastard Cressingham durst aim at a Scottish chief, still smarts upon my cheek; and rivers of his countrymen’s blood shall wash out the stain. After I had been persuaded by his serpent eloquence to swear fealty to Edward on the defeat at Dunbar, I vainly thought that Scotland had only changed a weak and unfortunate prince for a wise and victorious king; but when in the courts of Stirling, I heard Cressingham propose to the barons north of the dike, that they should give their strongest castles into English hands; when I opposed the measure with all the indignation of a Scot who saw himself betrayed, he first tried to overturn my arguments, and finding that impossible, while I repeated them with redoubled force-he struck me!-Powers of earth and heaven, what was then the tempest of my soul!-I drew my sword-I would have laid him dead at my feet, had not my obsequious countrymen held my arm, and dragged me from the apartment.

“Covered with dishonor by a blow I could not avenge. I fled to my brother-in-law, Sir John Scott, of Loch Doine. With him I buried my injury from the world; but it lived in my heart-it haunted me day and night, calling for revenge.

“In such an hour, how did I receive the tidings, that Sir William Wallace was in arms against the tyrant! It was the voice of retribution, calling me to peace of mind! Even my bedridden kinsman partook my emotions; and with his zealous concurrence, I led a band of his hardiest clansmen, to reinforce the brave men of Lanark on this rock.

“Two days I have now been here, awaiting in anxious impatience the arrival of Wallace. Yes! we will mingle our injured souls together! He has made one offering; I must make another! We shall set forth to Stirling; and there, in the very heart of his den, I will sacrifice the tiger Cressingham, to the vengeance of our wrongs.”

“But what, my brave friend,” asked Murray, “are the forces you deem sufficient for so great an enterprise? How many fighting men may be counted of Wallace’s own company, besides your own?”

“We have here about a hundred,” replied Kirkpatrick, “including yours.”

“How inadequate to storm so formidable a place as Stirling Castle!” returned Murray. “Having, indeed, passed the Rubicon, we must go forward, but resolution, not rashness, should be the principle of our actions. And my opinion is, that a few minor advantages obtained, our countrymen would flock to our standard, the enemy would be intimidated, and we should carry thousands, instead of hundreds, before the walls of Stirling. To attempt it now would invite defeat, and bring upon us the ruin of our entire project.”

“You are right, young man,” cried Kirkpatrick; “my gray head, rendered impetuous by insult, did not pause on the blind temerity of my scheme. I would rather for years watch the opportunity of taking a signal revenge than not accomplish it at last. Oh! I would rather waste all my life in these solitary wilds and know that at the close of it I should see the blood of Cressingham on these hands than live a prince and die unrevenged!”

Stephen and Ker now entered; the latter paid his respects to Sir Roger, and the former informed Murray that having disposed his present followers with those who had arrived before, he was come to lead their lord to some refreshment in the banqueting room of the tower. “What?” cried Murray, full of glad amazement; “is it possible that my cousin’s faithful band has reached its destination? None other belonging to Bothwell Castle had any chance of escaping its jailer’s hands.”

Kirkpatrick interrupted Stephen’s reply by saying that while their guests were at the board he would watch the arrival of certain expresses from two brave Drummonds, each of whom was to send him a hundred men: “So, my good Lord Andrew,” cried he, striking him on the shoulder, “shall the snow-launch gather that is to fall on Edward to his destruction.”

Murray heartily shared his zeal, and bidding him a short adieu, followed Stephen and Ker into the hall. A haunch of venison of Glenfinlass smoked on the board, and goblets of wine from the bounteous cellars of Sir John Scott brightened the hopes which glowed in every heart.

While the young chieftains were recruiting their exhausted strength, Stephen sat at the table to satisfy the anxiety of Murray to know how the detachment from Bothwell had come to Craignacoheilg, and by what fortunate occurrence, or signal act of bravery, Wallace could have escaped with his whole train from the foe surrounding Cartlane Craigs.

“Heaven smiled on us!” replied Stephen. “The very evening of the day on which Ker left us there was a carousal in the English camp. We heard the sound of the song and of riot, and of many an insult cast upon our besieged selves. But about an hour after sunset the noise sunk by degrees-a no insufficient hint that the revelers, overcome by excess, had fallen asleep. At this very time, ow............