It was on the eve of St. Nicholas that the boat which contained Wallace drew near to the coast of Fife. A little of the right towered the tremendous precipice of Kinghorn.
“Behold, Edwin,” said he, “the cause of all our woe! From those horrible cliffs fell the best of kings, the good Alexander. My father accompanied him in that fatal ride, and was one of the unhappy group who had the evil hap to find his mangled body among the rocks below.”
“I have heard,” observed Graham, “that the sage of Ercildown prophesied this dreadful calamity to Scotland.”
“He did prognosticate,” replied Wallace, “that on the eighteenth of April, a storm should burst over this land which would lay the country in ruins. Fear seized the farmers; but his prophecy regarded a nobler object than their harvests. The day came, rose unclouded, and continued perfectly serene. Lord March, to whom the seer had presaged the event, at noon reproached him with the unlikeliness of its completion. But even at the moment he was ridiculing the sage, a man on a foaming steed arrived at the gate, with tidings that the king had accidentally fallen from the precipice of Kinghorn, and was killed. ‘This,’ said the Lord of Ercildown, ‘is the scathing wind and dreadful tempest which shall long blow calamity and trouble on the realm of Scotland!’ And surely his words have been verified, for still the storm rages around our borders-and will not cease, I fear, till the present dragon of England be laid as low as our noble lion was by that mysterious blast.”38
38 Alexander III. was killed in this manner on the 18th of April, 1290, just seven years before the consequent calamities of his country made it necessary for Wallace to rise in its defense.
The like discourse held the friends till they landed at Roseyth Castle, where they lodged for the night; and next morning recommencing their journey at daybreak, they crossed the Lomonds under a wintery sun, and entered Perth in the midst of a snow-storm.
The regent’s arrival soon spread throughout the province, and the hall of the castle was speedily crowded with chieftains, come to pay their respects to their benefactor; while an army of grateful peasantry from the hills filled the suburbs of the town, begging for one glance only of their beloved lord. To oblige them, Wallace mounted his horse, and between the Lords Ruthven and Athol, with his bonnet off, rode from the castle to the populace-covered plain, which lay to the west of the city. He gratified their affectionate eagerness by this condescension, and received in return the sincere homage of a thousand grateful hearts. The snow-topped Grampians echoed with the proud acclamations of “Our deliverer,” “Our prince,” “The champion of Scotland,” “The glorious William Wallace!” and the shores of the Tay resounded with similar rejoicings at sight of him who made the Scottish seamen lords of the Northern Ocean.
Ruthven beheld this eloquence of nature with sympathetic feelings. His just sense of the unequaled merits of the regent had long internally acknowledged him as his sovereign; and he smiled with approbation at every breathing amongst the people which intimated what would at last be their general shout. Wallace had proved himself not only a warrior but a legislator. In the midst of war he had planted the fruits of peace, and now the olive and the vine waved abundant on every hill.
Different were the thoughts of the gloomy Athol as he rode by the side of the regent. Could he by a look have blasted those valiant arms-have palsied that youthful head, whose judgment shamed the hoariest temples-gladly would he have made Scotland the sacrifice so that he might never again find himself in the triumphant train of one whom he deemed a boy and an upstart! Thus did he muse, and thus did envy open a way into his soul for those demons to enter which were so soon to possess it with the fellest designs.
The issue of Ruthven’s claims did not lessen Lord Athol’s hatred of the regent. Wallace simply stated the case to him, only changing the situations of the opponents; he supposed Athol to be in the place of Ruthven and then asked the frowning earl if Ruthven had demanded a government which Athol had bravely won and nobly secured, whether he should deem it just to be sentenced to relinquish it into the hands of his rival? By this question he was forced to decide against himself. But while Wallace generously hoped that, by having made him his own judge, he had found an expedient both to soften the pain of disappointment and to lessen the humiliation of defeat, he had only redoubled the hatred of Athol, who thought he had thus been cajoled out of even the privilege of complaint. He, however, affected to be reconciled to the issue of the affair, and, taking a friendly leave of the regent, retired to Blair; and there, amongst the numerous fortresses which owned his power-amongst the stupendous strongholds of nature, the cloud invested mountains and the labyrinthine winding of his lochs and streams-he determined to pass his days and nights in devising the sure fall of this proud usurper; for so the bitterness of an envy he durst not yet breathe to any impelled him internally to designate the unpretending Wallace.
Meanwhile, the unconscious object of this hatred, oppressed by the overwhelming crowds constantly assembling at Perth to do him homage, retired to Huntingtower-a castle of Lord Ruthven’s, at some distance from the town. Secluded from the throng, he there arranged, with the chiefs of several clans, matters of consequence to the internal repose of the country; but receiving applications for similar regulations from the counties further north, he decided on going thither himself. Severe as the weather was at that season, he bade adieu to the warm hospitalities of Huntingtower, and, accompanied by Graham and his young friend Edwin, with a small but faithful train he commenced a journey which he intended should comprehend the circuit of the Highlands.
With the chieftain of almost every castle in his progress he passed a day, and according to the interest which the situation of the surrounding peasantry created in his mind he lengthened his sojourn. Everywhere he was welcomed with enthusiasm, and his glad eye beheld the festivities of Christmas with a delight which recalled past emotions, till they wrung his heart.
The last day of the old year he spent with Lord Loch-awe, in Kichurn Castle; and after a bounteous feast, in which lord and vassal joined, sat up the night to hail the coming in of the new season. Wallace had passed that hour, twelve months ago, alone with his Marion. They sat together in the window of the eastern tower of Ellerslie: and while he listened to the cheerful lilts to which their servants were dancing, the hand of his lovely bride was clasped in his. Marion smiled and talked of the happiness which should await them in the year to come. “Ay, my beloved,” answered he, “more than thy beauteous self will then fill these happy arms! Thy babe, my wife, will then hand at thy bosom, to bless with a parent’s joys thy grateful husband!”
That time was now come round, and where was Marion?-cold in the grave. Where that smiling babe?-a murderer’s steel had reached it ere it saw the light.
Wallace groaned at these recollections; he struck his hand forcibly on his bursting heart, and fled from the room. The noise of the harps, the laughing of the dancers, prevented his emotions from being observed; and rushing far from the joyous tumult, till its sounds died in the breeze, or were only brought to his ear by fitful gusts, he speeded along the margin of the lake, as if he would have flown even from himself. But memory, racking memory, followed him. Throwing himself on a bank, over which the ice hung in pointed masses, he felt not the roughness of the ground, for all within him was disturbed and at war.
“Why,” cried he, “O! why was I selected for this cruel sacrifice? Why was this heart, to whom the acclaim of multitudes could bring no selfish joy-why was it to be bereft of all that ever made it beat with transport? Companion of my days, partner of my soul! my lost, lost Marion! And are thine eyes forever closed on me? Shall I never more clasp that hand which ever thrilled my frame with every sense of rapture? Gone, gone forever-and I am alone!”
Long and agonizing was the pause which succeeded to this fearful tempest of feeling. In that hour of grief, renewed in all its former violence, he forgot country, friends and all on earth. The recollection of his fame was mockery to him; for where was she to whom the sound of his praises would have given so much joy?
“Ah!” said he, “it was indeed happiness to be brightened in those eyes! When the gratitude of our poor retainers met thine ear, how didst thou lay thy soft cheek to mine, and shoot its gentle warmth into my heart!” At that moment he turned his face on the gelid bank; starting with wild horror, he exclaimed, “Is it now so cold? My Marion, my murdered wife!” and, rushing from the spot, he again hastened along the margin of the loch. But there he still heard the distant sound of the pipes from the castle; he could not bear their gay notes; and, darting up the hill which overhung Loch-awe’s domain, he ascended, with swift and reckless steps, the rocky sides of Ben Cruachan. Full of distracting thoughts, and impelled by a wild despair, he hurried from steep to steep, and was rapidly descending the western side of the mountain, regardless of the piercing sleet, when his course was suddenly checked by coming with a violent shock against another human being, who, running as hastily through the storm, had driven impetuously against Wallace; but, being the weaker of the two, was struck to the ground. The accident rallied the scattered senses of the chief. He now felt that he was out in the midst of a furious winter tempest, had wandered he knew not whither, and probably had materially injured some poor traveler by his intemperate motion.
He raised the fallen man, and asked whether he were hurt. The traveler, perceiving by the kind tone of the inquirer that no harm had been intended, answered, “Not much, only a little lamed, and all the recompense I ask for this unlucky upset is to give me a helping hand to my father’s cot-it is just by. I have been out at a neighbor’s to dance in the new year with a bonny lass, who, however, may not thank you for my broken shins!”
As the honest lad went on telling his tale, with a great many particulars dear to his simple wishes, Wallace helped him along; and carefully conducting him through the gathering snow, descended the declivity which led to the shepherd’s cottage. When within a few yards of it, Wallace heard the sound of singing, but it was not the gay caroling of mirth; the solemn chant of more serious music mingled with the roaring blast.
“I am not too late yet!” cried the communicative lad; “I should not have run so fast had I not wanted to get home in time enough to make one in the New-year’s hymn.”
They had now arrived at the little door, and the youth, without the ceremony of knocking, opened the latch; as he did so, he turned and said to............