Wallace was yet recounting the particulars of his royal visit to Bruce (who had anxiously watched his return), when one of the queen’s attendants appeared; and presenting him with a silk handkerchief curiously coiled up, said, that he brought it from her majesty; who supposed it must be his, as she found it in the room where he had been playing the harp. Wallace was going to say that it did not belong to him, when Bruce gave him a look which directed him to take the handkerchief. He obeyed, without a word, and the boy withdrew.

Bruce smiled. “There is more in that handkerchief than silk, my friend! Queens send not these embassies on trifling errands.” While Bruce spoke, Wallace unwrapped it. “I told you so!” cried the prince, with a frank archness playing over his before pensive features, and pointing to a slip of emblazoned vellum, which became unfolded. “Shall I look aside while you peruse it?”

“Look on it, my dear prince,” replied Wallace; “for in trifles, as well as in things of moment, I would hold no reserves with you.”

The vellum was then opened, and these words presented themselves:

“Presume not on condescension. This injunction may be necessary for the noble lady who was present at our interview tells me the men of this island are very presuming. Redeem the character of your countrymen, and transgress not on a courtesy that only means to say, I did not leave you this morning so abruptly out of unkindness. I write this, because having the countess ever with me, I shall not even dare to whisper it in her presence. Be always faithful, and respectful, minstrel, and you shall ever find an indulgent mistress.

“A page will call you when your attendance is desired.”

Wallace and Bruce looked on each other. Bruce first spoke.

“Had you vanity, my friend, this letter, from so lovely and innocent a creature, might be a gratification; but in your case, the sentiment it breathes is full of danger. She knows not the secret power that impelled her to write this, but we do; and I fear it will point an attention to you which may produce effects ruinous to our projects.”

“Then,” answered Wallace, “our alternative is to escape it by getting away this very night. And, as you persevere in your resolution not to enter Scotland unaccompanied by me, and will share my attempt to rescue Lady Helen Mar, we must direct our course immediately to the Continent.”

“Yes, instantly, and securely, too, under the disguise of priests!” returned Bruce. “I have in my possession the wardrobe of the confessor who followed my father’s fortunes, and who, on his death, retired into the abbey which contains his remains.”

It was then settled between the friends, that when it became dark they should dress themselves in the confessor’s robes, and by means of the queen’s signet, which she had given to Wallace at the banquet, pass the guard as priests who had entered by some other gate, and were returned from shriving her majesty. Once without the city, they could make a swift progress southward to the nearest seaport, and there safely embark for France; for they were well aware that the moment they were missed suspicion would direct pursuit toward the Scottish border.

In these arrangements, and planning their future movements relative to the rescue of Lady Helen, they passed several hours, and were only interrupted by the arrival of a lute from the queen for her minstrel to tune. Wallace obeyed; and returning it by the page who brought it, congratulated himself that it was not accompanied by any new summons. Then continuing his discourse with Bruce on the past, present, and to come, their souls grew more closely entwined as they more intimately recognized their kindred natures; and time moved on, unmarked, till the shadows of evening deepened into night.

“Now is our hour,” cried Bruce, starting on his feet; “go you into that room, and array yourself in the confessor’s robes, while I call my servants to dispense with their usual nightly attendance.”

With determination and hope, Wallace gladly obeyed. In that very same instant the Earl of Gloucester suddenly entered; and, looking round the room with a disturbed countenance, abruptly said:

“Where is the minstrel?”

“Why?” answered Bruce, with an alarm which he vainly tried to prevent appearing on his face. Gloucester advanced close to him.

“Is any one within hearing?”

“No one.”

“Then,” replied the earl, “his life is in danger. He is suspected to be not what he seems; and I am sorry to add, to stand in favor with the queen, of a nature to incur his mortal punishment.”

Bruce was so confounded with this stoppage of all their plans, and at the imminent peril of Wallace, that he could not speak. Gloucester proceeded:

“My dear Bruce, from the circumstance of his being with you, I cannot but suppose that you know more than you think proper to disclose. Whoever he may be, whether he came from France, or really from Scotland, as he says, his life is now forfeited. And that, by attempting to screen him, you may not seem to share his imputed guilt, I come to warn you of this discovery. A double guard is set around the keep; so no visible means are left for his escape.”

“Then what will become of him?” exclaimed Bruce, forgetting all caution in dismay for his friend. “Am I to see the bravest of men, the savior of my country, butchered before my eyes by a tyrant? I may die, Gloucester, in his defense, but I will never surrender him to his enemy!”

Gloucester stood aghast at this disclosure. He came to accuse the friend of Bruce, that Bruce might be prepared to clear himself of connivance with so treasonable a crime; but now that he found this friend to be Wallace, the preserver of his own life, the restorer of his honor at Berwick, he immediately resolved to give him freedom.

“Bruce,” cried he, “when I recollect the figure and deportment of this minstrel, I am surprised that, in despite of his disguise, I did not recognize the invincible Regent of Scotland; but now I know him, he shall find that generosity is not confined to his own breast. Give me your word that you will not stimulate suspicion by remonstrating with Edward against your own arrest till the court leaves Durham, and I will instantly find a way to conduct your friend in safety from the castle.”

“I pledge you my word of honor,” cried Bruce; “release but him, and, if you demand it of me, I would die in chains.”

“He saved me at Berwick,” replied Gloucester, “and I am anxious to repay the debt. If he be near, explain what has happened in as few words as possible, for we must not delay a moment. I left a council with the enraged king, settling what horrible death was to be his punishment.”

“When he is safe,” answered Bruce, “I will attest his innocence to you; meanwhile, rely on my faith, that you are giving liberty to a guiltless man.”

Bruce hastened to Wallace, who had just completed his disguise. He briefly related what had passed, and received for answer, that he would not leave his prince to the revenge of the tyrant. But Bruce, urging that the escape of the one could alone secure that of the other, implored him not to persist in refusing his offered safety, but to make direct for Normandy.

“I will join you at Rouen; and thence we can proceed to Guienne,” added he. “The hour the court leaves Durham is that of my escape; and when free, what shall divide me from you and our enterprise!”

Wallace had hardly assented, when a tumultuous noise broke the silence of the courtyard; the great iron doors of the keep were thrown back on their hinges, and the clangor of arms, with many voices, resounded in the hall. Thinking all was lost, with a cry of despair, Bruce drew his sword, and threw himself before his friend. At that instant Gloucester entered the room. “They are quicker than I thought!” cried he; “but follow me. Bruce, remain where you are: sheathe your sword — be bold; deny you know anything of the minstrel, and all will be well.” As he spoke, the feet of them who were come to seize Wallace already sounded in the adjoining apartment. Gloucester grasped the Scottish hero by the hand, turned into a short gallery, and, plucking the broad shaft of a cedar pilaster from under its capital, let himself and his companion into a passage within the wall of the building. The ponderous beam closed after them into its former situation; and the silent pair descended, by a long flight of stone steps, to a square dungeon without any visible outlet; but the earl found one, by raising a flat stone marked by an elevated cross; and again they penetrated lower into the bosom of the earth by a gradually declining path till they stopped on a subterranean level ground. “This vaulted passage,” said Gloucester, “reaches, in a direct line, to Fincklay Abbey.46 A particular circumstance constrained my uncle, the then abbot of that monastery, to discover it to me, ten years ago. He told me, that to none but the bishops of Durham and the abbots of Fincklay was the secret of its existence revealed. Since my coming hither this time (which was to escort the young queen — not to bear arms against Scotland), I one day took it into my head to revisit this recess; and, happily for the gratitude I owe to you, I found all as I had left it in my uncle’s lifetime. But, for the sake of my honor with Edward, whose wrath would fall upon me in most fearful shapes should he ever know that I delivered his vanquisher out of his hands, I must enjoin you to secrecy. Though the enemy of my king’s ambition, you are the friend of mankind. You were my benefactor, noble Wallace; and I should deserve the rack, could I suffer one hair of your head to fall with violence to the ground.”

46 The remains of this curious subterranean passage are yet to be seen; but parts of them are now broken in upon by water, and therefore the communication between Durham and Fincklay is now cut off.

With answering frankness, Wallace declared his sense of the earl’s generosity; and earnestly commended the young Bruce to his watchful friendship. “The brave impetuosity of his mind,” continued he, “at times may overthrow his prudence, and leave him exposed to dangers which a little virtuous caution might avoid. Dissimulation is a baseness I should shudder at seeing him practice; but when the flood of indignation swells his bosom, then tell him, that I conjure him, on the life of his dearest wishes, to be silent! The storm which threatens must blow over, and the power which guides through perils those who trust in it, will ordain that we shall meet again!”

Gloucester replied, “What you say I will repeat to Bruce. I am too sensible that my royal father-in-law has trampled on his rights; and should I ever see him restored to the throne of his ancestors, I could not but acknowledge the hand of Heaven in the event. Far would it have been from me to have bound him to remain a prisoner during Edward’s sojourn at Durham, had I not been certain that your escape and his together would now give birth to a plausible argument in the minds of my enemies; and, grounding their suspicions on my acknowledged attachment to Bruce, the king might have been persuaded to believe me unfaithful to his interests. The result would be my disgrace, and a broken heart to her who has raised me by her generous love from the humbler ranks of nobility to that of a prince, and her husband.”

Gloucester then informed Wallace that about two hours before he came to alarm Bruce for his safety on this occasion, he was summoned by Edward to attend him immediately. When he obeyed, he found Soulis standing by the royal couch, and his majesty talking with vehemence. At sight of Gloucester he beckoned him to advance, and striking his hand fiercely on a letter he held, he exclaimed:

“Here, my son, behold the record of your father’s shame! — of a King of England dishonored by a slave!”

As he spoke he dashed it from him. Soulis answered, smiling:

“Not a slave, my lord and king! can you not see, through the ill adapted disguise, the figure and mien of nobility? He is some foreign lover of your bride, come —”

“Enough!” interrupted the king; “I know I am dishonored; but the villain shall die. Read the letter, Gloucester, and say what tortures shall stamp my vengeance!”

Gloucester opened the vellum, and read, in the queen’s hand:

“Gentle minstrel! my lady countess tells me I must not see you again. Were you old or ugly, as most bards are, I might, she says; but being young, it is not for a queen to smile upon one of your calling. She bade me remember, that when I smiled, you smiled too; and that you asked me questions unbecoming your degree. Pray do not do this any more; though I see no harm in it; alas! I used to smile as I liked when I was in France. Oh, if it were not for those I love best, who are now in England, I wish I were there again! and you would go with me, gentle minstrel, would you not? And you would teach me to sing so sweetly! I would then never talk with you, but would always speak in song; how pretty that would be! and then we should be from under the eyes of this harsh countess. My ladies in France would let you come in and stay as long with me as I pleased. But as I cannot go back again, I will make myself happy here in spite of the countess, who rules me more as if she were my stepmother than I hers; but then to be sure she is a few years older.

“I will see you this evening, and your sweet harp shall sing all my heart-aches to sleep. My French lady of honor will conduct you secretly to my apartments. I am sure you are too honest even to guess at what the countess thinks you might fancy when I smile on you. But, gentle minstrel, presume not, and you shall ever find an indulgent mistress in M—

“P.S. At the last vespers to-night, my page shall come for you.”

Gloucester knew the queen’s handwriting; and not being able to contradict that this letter was hers, he inquired how it came into his majesty’s hands.

“I found it,” replied Soulis, “in crossing the courtyard; it lay on the ground, where, doubtless, it had been accidentally dropped by the queen’s messenger.”

Gloucester, wishing to extenuate for the queen’s sake, whose youth and inexperience he pitied, affirmed that, from the simplicity with which the note was written, from her innocent references to the minstrel’s profession, he could not suppose that she addressed him in any other character.

“If he be only a base itinerant harper,” replied the king, “the deeper is my disgrace; for, if a passion of another king than music be not portrayed in every word of this artful letter, I never read a woman’s heart!”

The king continued to comment on the fatal scroll with............