As Wallace pursued his march along the once fertile and well-peopled valleys of Clydesdale, their present appearance affected him like the sight of a friend whom he had seen depart in all the graces of youth and prosperity, but met again overcome with disease and wretchedness.

The pastures of Carstairs on the east of the river, which used at this season to be whitened with sheep, and sending forth the lowings of abundant cattle; and the vales, which had teemed with reapers rejoicing in the harvest, were now laid waste and silent. The plain presented one wide flat of desolation. Where once was the enameled meadow, a dreary swamp extended its vapory surface; and the road which a happy peasantry no longer trod, lay choked up with thistles and rank grass; while birds and animals of chase would spring from its thickets, on the lonely traveler, to tell him by their wild astonishment that he was distant from even the haunts of men. The remains of villages were visible; but the blackness of ashes marked the walls of the ruined dwellings.

Wallace felt that he was passing through the country in which his Marion had been rifled of her life; and as he moved along, nature all around seemed to have partaken of her death. As he rode over the moors which led toward the district of Crawford Lammington, those hills amidst which the beloved of his soul first drew breath, he became totally silent. Time rolled back; he was no longer the Regent of Scotland, but the fond lover of Marion Braidfoot. His heart beat as it was wont to do in turning his horse down the defile which led direct to Lammington; but the scene was completely changed; the groves in which he had so often wandered with her were gone; they had been cut down for the very purpose of destroying that place, which had once been the abode of beauty and innocence, and of all the tender charities.

One shattered tower alone remained of the house of Lammington. The scathing of fire embrowned its sides, and the uprooted garden marked where the ravager had been. While his army marched before him along the heights of Crawford, Wallace slowly moved forward, musing on the scene. In turning the angle of a shattered wall, his horse started; and the next moment he perceived an aged figure, with a beard white as snow, and wrapped in a dark plaid, emerging from the ground. At sight of the apparition, Murray, who accompanied his friend, and had hitherto kept silent, suddenly exclaimed, “I conjure you, honest Scot, ghost or man, give us a subject for conversation! and, as a beginning, pray tell me to whom this ruined tower belonged?”

The sight of two warriors in the Scottish garb encouraged the old man; and stepping out on the ground, he drew near to Murray. “Ruined, indeed, sir,” replied he; “and its story is very sad. When the Southrons, who hold Annandale, heard of the brave acts of Sir William Wallace, they sent an army to destroy this castle and domains, which are his, in right of the Lady Marion of Lammington. Sweet creature! I hear they foully murdered her in Lanark.”

Murray was smitten speechless at this information; for had he suspected there was any private reason with Wallace for his silent lingering about this desolate spot, he would rather have drawn him away than have stopped to ask questions.

“And did you know Lady Marion, venerable old man?” inquired Wallace, in a voice so descriptive of what was passing in his heart, that the old man turned toward him; and struck with his noble mien, he pulled off his bonnet, and bowing, answered, “Did I know her? She was nursed on these knees. And my wife, who cherished her sweet infancy, is now within yon brae. It is our only home, for the Southrons burnt us out of the castle, where our young lady left us, when she went to be married to the brave young Wallace. He was as handsome a youth as ever the sun shone upon, and he loved my lady from a boy. I never shall forget the day when she stood on the top of that rock, and let a garland he had made for her fall into the Clyde. Without more ado, never caring because it is the deepest here of any part of the river, he jumps in after it, and I after him; and well I did, for when I caught him by his bonny golden locks, he was insensible. His head had struck against a stone in the plunge, and a great cut was over his forehead. God bless him, a sorry scar it left! but many, I warrant, have the Southrons now made on his comely countenance. I have never seen him since he grew a man.”

Gregory, the honest steward of Lammington, was now recognized in this old man’s narration; but time and hardship had so altered his appearance, that Wallace could not have otherwise recollected the ruddy face and active figure of his well-remembered companion, in the shaking limbs and pallid visage of the hoary speaker. When he ended, the chief threw himself from his horse. He approached the old man; with one hand he took off his helmet, and with the other putting back the same golden locks, he said, “Was the scar you speak of anything like this?” His face was now close to the eye of Gregory, who in the action, the words, and the mark, immediately recognizing the young playmate of his happiest days, with an almost shriek of joy, threw himself on his neck and wept; then looking up, with tears rolling over his cheeks, he exclaimed, “O Power of Mercy, take me to thyself, since my eyes have seen the deliverer of Scotland!”

“Not so, my venerable friend,” returned Wallace; “you must make these desolated regions bloom anew! Decorate them, Gregory, as you would do the tomb of your mistress. I give them to you and yours. Marion and I have no posterity! Let her foster-brother, if he still live-let him be now the Laird of Lammington.”

“He does live,” replied the old man, “but the shadow of what he was. In attempting, with a few resolute lads, to defend these domains, he was severely wounded. His companions were slain, and I found him on the other side of my lady’s garden left for dead. We fled with him to the woods, and there remained till all about here was laid in ashes. Finding the cruel Southrons had made a general waste, yet fearful of fresh incursions, we and others who had been driven from their homes, dug us subterraneous dwellings, and ever since have lived like fairies in the green hillside. My son and his young wife and babes are now in our cavern, but reduced by sickness and want, for famine is here. Alas, the Southrons, in conquering Scotland, have not gained a kingdom, but made a desert!”

“And there is a God who marks,” returned Wallace; “I go to reap the harvests of Northumberland. What our enemies have ravished hence in part they shall refund; a few days, and your granaries shall overflow. Meanwhile, I leave you with my friend,” said he, pointing to Murray, “at the head of five hundred men. To-morrow he may commence the reduction of every English fortress that yet casts a shade on the stream of our native Clyde; for when the sun next rises, the Southrons will have passed the Scottish borders and then the truce expires.”

Gregory fell at his feet, and begged that he be allowed to bring his Nannie to see the husband of her once dear child.

“Not now,” replied Wallace, “I could not bear the interview-she shall see me when I return.”

He then spoke apart to Murray, who cheerfully acquiesced in a commission that promised him not only the glory of being a conqueror, but the private satisfaction, he hoped, of driving the Southron garrison out of his own paternal castle. To send such news to his noble father at Stirling, would indeed be a wreath of honor to his aged and yet warlike brow. It was then arranged between the young chief and his commander that watchtowers should be thrown up on every conspicuous eminence which skirted the Scottish borders; whence concerted signals of victories, or other information, might be severally interchanged. These preliminaries adjusted, the regent’s bugle brought Ker and Sir John Graham to his side. The appointed number of men was left with Murray; and Wallace, joining his other chieftains, bade his friend and honest servant adieu.