Lord Ruthven was yet musing, in fearful anxiety, on Wallace’s solemn adieu, and the confirmation which the recitals of Grimsby and Hay had brought of his determined exile, when he was struck with a new consternation by the flight of his son. A billet, which Edwin had left with Scrymgeour, who guessed not its contents, told his father that he was gone to seek their friend, and to unite himself forever to his fortunes.
Bothwell not less eager to preserve Wallace to the world, with an intent to persuade him to at least abandon his monastic project, set off direct for France, hoping to arrive before his friend, and engage the French monarch to assist in preventing so grievous a sacrifice. Ruthven, meanwhile, fearful that the unarmed Wallace and the self-regardless Edwin might fall into the hands of the venal wretches now widely dispersed to seize the chief and his adherents, sent out the veterans, in divers disguises, to pursue the roads it was probable he might take, and finding him, guard him safely to the coast. Till Ruthven should receive accounts of their success, he forbore to forward the letter which Wallace had left for Bruce, or to increase the solicitude of the already anxious inhabitants of Huntingtower with any intimation of what had happened. But on the fourth day, Scrymgeour and his party returned with the horrible narrative of Lumloch.
receive accounts of their success, he forbore to forward the letter which Wallace had left for Bruce, or to increase the solicitude of the already anxious inhabitants of Huntingtower with any intimation of what had happened. But on the fourth day, Scrymgeour and his party returned with the horrible narrative of Lumloch.
After the murder of his youthful friend, Wallace had been loaded with irons, and conveyed, so unresistingly that he seemed in a stupor, on board a vessel, to be carried without loss of time to the Tower of London. Sir John Monteith, though he never ventured into his sight, attended as the accuser, who, to put a visor on cruelty, was to swear away his victim’s life. The horror and grief of Ruthven at these tidings were unutterable; and Scrymgeour, to turn the tide of the bereaved father’s thoughts to the inspiring recollection of the early glory of his son, proceeded to narrate, that he found the beauteous remains in the hovel, but bedecked with flowers by the village girls. They were weeping over it, and lamenting the pitiless heart which could slay such youth and loveliness. To bury him in so obscure a spot, Scrymgeour would not allow, and he had sent Stephen Ireland with the sacred corpse to Dumbarton, with orders to see him entombed in the chapel of that fortress.
“It is done,” continued the worthy knight, “and those towers he so bravely scaled with stand forever the monument of Edwin Ruthven.”
“Scrymgeour,” said the stricken father, “the shafts fall thick upon us, but we must fulfill our duty.”
Cautious of inflicting too heavy a blow on the fortitude of his wife and of Helen, he commanded Grimsby and Hay to withhold from everybody at Huntingtower the tidings of its young lord’s fate; but he believed it his duty not to delay the letter of Wallace to Bruce, and the dreadful information to him of Monteith’s treachery. Ruthven ended his short epistle to his wife by saying he should soon follow his messenger; but that at present he could not bring himself to entirely abandon the Lowlands to even a temporary empire of the seditious chiefs.
Ruthven ended his short epistle to his wife by saying he should soon follow his messenger; but that at present he could not bring himself to entirely abandon the Lowlands to even a temporary empire of the seditious chiefs.
On Grimsby’s arrival at Huntingtower he was conducted immediately to Bruce. Some cheering symptoms having appeared that morning, he had just exchanged his bed for a couch when Grimsby entered the room. The countenance of the honest Southron was the harbinger of his news. Lady Helen started from her seat, and Bruce, stretching out his arms, eagerly caught the packets the soldier presented. Isabella inquired if all were well with Sir William Wallace; but ere he could make an answer, Lady Ruthven ran breathless into the room, holding out the open letter brought by Hay to her. Bruce had just read the first line of his, which announced the captivity of Wallace; and, with a groan that pierced through the souls of every one present, he made an attempt to spring from the couch; but in the act he reeled, and fell back in a fearful but mute mental agony. The apprehensive heart of Helen guessed some direful explanation; she looked with speechless inquiry upon her aunt and Grimsby. Isabella and Ercildown hastened to Bruce; and Lady Ruthven being too much appalled in her own feelings to think for a moment on the aghast Helen, hurriedly read to her from Lord Ruthven’s letter the brief but decisive account of Wallace’s dangerous situation — his seizure and conveyance to the Tower of England. Helen listened without a word; her heart seemed locked within her; her brain was on fire; and gazing fixedly on the floor while she listened, all else that was transacted around her passed unnoticed.
The pangs of a convulsion fit did not long shackle the determined Bruce. The energy of his spirit struggling to gain the side of Wallace in this his extreme need (for he well knew Edward’s implacable soul), roused him from his worse than swoon. With his extended arms dashing away the restoratives with which both Isabella and Ercildown hung over him, he would have leaped on the floor had not the latter held him down.
“Withhold me not!” cried he; “this is not the time for sickness and indulgence. My friend is in the fangs of the tyrant, and shall I lie here? No, not for all the empires in the globe will I be detained another hour.”
Isabella, affrighted at the furies which raged in his eyes, but yet more terrified at the perils attendant on his desperate resolution, threw herself at his feet, and implored him to stay for her sake.
“No,” cried Bruce, “not for thy life, Isabella, which is dearer to me than my own! not to save this ungrateful country from the doom it merits would I linger one moment from the side of him who has fought, bled, and suffered for me and mine, who is now treated with ignominy, and sentenced to die, for my delinqu............