To urge the dangers to which such a resolution would expose this too faithful friend, Wallace knew would be in vain: he read an invincible determination in the eye and gesture of Edwin; and, therefore yielding to the demands of friendship, he threw himself on his neck. "For thy sake, Edwin, I will yet endure awhile mankind at large! Thy bloom of honour shall not be cropt by my hand. We will go together to France; and while I seek a probationary quiet in some of its remote cities, thou mayest bear the standard of Scotland, in the land of our ally, against the proud enemies of Bruce."—"Make of me what you will," returned Edwin, "only do not divide me from yourself!"

Wallace explained to his friend his design of crossing the hills, to Ayrshire; in some port of which, he did not doubt finding some vessel bound for France. Edwin overturned this plan, by telling him, that in the moment the abthanes repledged their secret faith to England, they sent orders into Ayrshire, to watch the movements of Wallace’s relations; and to prevent their either hearing of, or marching to the assistance of their wronged kinsman. And besides this, no sooner was it discovered by the insurgent Lords at Roslyn, that he had disappeared from the camp, than supposing he meant to appeal to Philip, they despatched expresses all along the western and eastern coasts, from the friths of Forth and Clyde, to those of Solway and Berwick-upon-Tweed, to intercept him. On hearing this, and that all avenues from the southern parts of his country were closed upon him, Wallace determined to try the north. Some bay in the Western Highlands might open its yet not ungrateful arms, to set its benefactor free! "If not by a ship," continued Edwin, "a fisher’s boat will launch us from a country no longer worthy of you!"

Their course was then taken along the Cartlane craigs; at a distance from villages and mountain cots, which, leaning from their verdant heights, seemed to invite the traveller to refreshment and repose. Though the sword of Wallace had won them this quiet; though his wisdom, like the hand of creation, had spread the lately barren hills with beauteous harvests; yet had an ear of corn been asked in his name, it would have been denied. A price was set upon his head; and the lives of all who should succour him would be forfeited! He who had given bread, and homes, to thousands, was left to perish,—had not where to shelter his head. Edwin looked anxiously on him, as at times they sped silently along: "Ah !" thought he, "this heroic endurance of evil, is the true cross of our celestial Captain! Let who will carry its painted insignia to the Holy Land, here is the man that bears the real substance, that walks undismayed in the path of his sacrificed Lord!"

The black plumage of a common Highland bonnet, which Edwin had purchased at one of the cottages to which he had gone alone, to buy a few oaten cakes, hung over the face of his friend. That face no longer blazed with the fire of generous valour; it was pale and sad;— but whenever he turned his eye on Edwin, the shades which seemed to envelope it, disappeared in a bright smile, spoke the peaceful consciousness within; a look of grateful affection, expressed his comfort, at having found, in defiance of every danger, he was not yet wholly forsaken. Edwin’s youthful, happy spirit, rejoiced in every glad beam which shone on the face of him he loved. It awoke felicity in his breast. To be occasionally near Wallace, to share his confidence with others, had always filled him with joy; but now to be the only one on whom his noble heart leaned for consolation, was bliss unutterable. He trod in air; and even chid his beating heart for a delight, which seemed to exult, when his friend suffered:—"But not so," ejaculated he internally; "to be with thee, is the delight! In life or in death, thy presence is the sunshine of my soul !"

When they arrived within sight of the high towers of Bothwell Castle, Wallace stopped. "We must not go thither;" said Edwin, replying to the sentiment, which spoke from the eyes of his friend; "the servants of my cousin Andrew, may not be as faithful as their lord! "—"I will not try them;" returned Wallace, with a resigned smile; "my presence in Bothwell chapel, shall not pluck danger on the head of my dauntless Murray. She wakes in heaven for me, whose body sleeps there; and knowing where to find the jewel, my friend! shall I linger over the vacated casket?"

While he yet spoke, a chieftain on horseback suddenly emerged from the trees, which led to the castle, and drew to their side. Edwin was wrapped in his plaid; and cautiously concealing his face that no chance of his recognition, might betray his companion, he walked briskly on, without once looking at the stranger. But Wallace, being without any shade over the noble contour of a form, which for majesty and grace was unequalled in Scotland, could not be mistaken. He, too, moved swiftly forward. The horseman spurred after him. Perceiving himself pursued, and therefore known, and aware that he must be overtaken, be suddenly stopped. Edwin drew his sword, and would have given it into the band of his friend; but Wallace, putting it back, rapidly answered, "Leave my defence to this unweaponed arm. I would not use steel against my countrymen; but none shall take me, while I have a sinew to resist."

The chieftain now checked his horse in front of Wallace, and respectfully raising his visor, discovered Sir John Monteith. At sight of him, Edwin dropped the point of his yet uplifted sword; and Wallace, stepping back, "Monteith," said he, "I am sorry for this rencontre. If you would be safe from the destiny which pursues me, you, must retire immediately, and forget that we have met."— "Never;" cried Monteith; "I know the ingratitude of an envious country drives the bravest of her champions from our borders; but I also know, what belongs to myself! To serve you at all hazards! And by conjuring you to become my guest, in my castle on the frith of Clyde, I would demonstrate my grateful sense of the dangers you once incurred for me; and I therefore thank fortune for this rencontre."

In vain Wallace expressed his determination, not to bring peril on any of his countrymen, by sojourning under any roof, till he were far from Scotland. In vain he urged to Monteith, the outlawry which would await him, should the infuriate abthanes discover that he had given shelter to the man whom they had chosen to suppose a traitor, and denounce as one. Monteith, after equally unsuccessful persuasions on his side, at last said, that he knew a vessel was now lying at Newark near his castle, in which Wallace might immediately embark; and he implored him, by past friendship, to allow him to be his guide to its anchorage. To enforce this supplication, he threw himself off his horse, and, with protestations of a fidelity that trampled on all dangers, entreated, even with sobs, not to be refused the last comfort he should ever know in his now degraded country. "Once, I saw Scotland’s ready champion, the brave Douglas, rifled from her shores ! Do not then doom me to a second grief, bitterer than the first; do not you yourself, drive me from the side of her last hero!—Ah! let me behold you, companion of my school-days, friend, leader, benefactor! till the sea wrests you for ever from my eyes!"—Exhausted, and affected, Wallace gave his hand to Monteith: the tear of gratitude stood in his eye. He looked affectionately from Monteith to Edwin, from Edwin to Monteith; "Wallace shall yet live in the memory of the trusty, of this land! you, my friends, prove it. I go richly forth, for the hearts of good men are my companions."

As they journeyed along the devious windings of the Clyde, and saw at a distance the aspiring turrets of Rutherglen, Edwin pointed to them, and said, "From that church, a few months ago, did you dictate a conqueror’s terms to England!"—"And now that very England, makes me a fugitive;" returned Wallace.—"Oh! not England! interrupted Edwin; you bow not to her. It is blind, mad Scotland, who thus thrusts her benefactor from her."— "Ah! then, my Edwin;" rejoined he, "read in me the history of thousands! So various is the fate of a people’s idol; to-day he is worshipped as a god, to-morrow cast into the fire !"

Monteith turned pale at this conversation; and quickening his steps, hurried in silence past the opening of the valley which presented the view of Rutherglen.

Night overtook the travellers, near. the little village of Lumloch, about two hours journey from Glasgow. Here, a storm coming on, Monteith advised his friends to take shelter, and rest. "As you object to implicate others;" said he, "you may sleep secure in an old barn, which at present has no ostensible owner. I remarked it, while passing this way from Newark. But I rather wish you would forget this too chary regard for others, and lodge with me in the neighbouring cottage." Wallace was insensible to the pelting of the elements; his unsubdued spirit, neither wanted rest for mind nor body; but the broken voice, and lingering step of the young Edwin, who had severely sprained his foot in the dark, penetrated his heart: and notwithstanding that the resolute boy, suddenly rallying himself, declared he was neither weary nor in pain, Wallace, seeing he was both, yielded a sad consent to be conducted from the storm. "But not;" said he, "to the house. We will go into the barn; and there; on the dry earth, my Edwin, we may gratefully repose."

Monteith did not oppose him further, and pushing open the door, Wallace and Edwin entered. Their conductor soon after followed with a light from the cottage; and pulling down some heaped straw, strewed it on the ground for a bed. "Here I shall sleep like a prince!" cried Edwin, throwing himself along the scattered truss. "But not;" returned Monteith, "till I have disengaged you from your wet garments; and preserved your arms, and brigandine, from the rust of this night." Edwin, sunk in weariness, said little in opposition; and having suffered Monteith to take away his sword, and to unbrace his plated vest, dropped at once on the straw in a profound sleep.

Wallace, that he might not disturb him by debate, yielded to the request of Monteith; and having resigned his armour also, waved him a good night. Monteith nodded the same, and closed the door upon his victims.

Well known to the generals of King Edward, as one who estimated his honour as a mere counter of traffick, Sir John Monteith was considered by them all as a hireling fit for any purpose. Though De Warenne had been persuaded to use unworthy means, to intimidate his great opponent, he would have shrunk from being a coadjutor of treachery. His removal from the Lord-wardenship of Scotland, in consequence of the wounds he had received at Dalkeith, opened a path to the elevation of Aymer de Valence. And when he was named viceroy in the stead of De Warenne, he told Edward, that if he would authorise him to offer an earldom, with adequate estates, to Sir John Monteith, the old friend of Wallace; he was sure so rapacious a chieftain, would traverse sea and land, to put that formidable Scot into the hands of England. To incline Edward to the proffer of so large a bribe, De Valence instanced Monteith’s having volunteered, while he commanded with Sir Eustace Maxwell on the borders, to betray the forces under him to the English general. The treachery was accepted; and for its execution he received a casket of uncounted gold. Some other proofs of his devotion to England, were mentioned by De Valence. "You mean his devotion to money!" replied the King; "and if that will make him ours at this crisis, give him overflowing coffers, but no earldom !—Though I must have the head of Wallace, I would not have one of my peers show a title written in his blood. Ill deeds must sometimes be done; but we do not emblazon their perpetrators!" [How wonderful, that a prince who could utter such a sentiment, could at the same time sanction what he condemned! Alas! how does the heart deceive itself !—(1809.)]

De Valence having received his credentials, sent Haliburton, (a Scottish prisoner, who bought his liberty too dear by such an embassage,) to impart to Sir John Monteith the King of England’s proposal. Monteith was then castellan of Newark; where he had immured himself for many months, under a pretence of the re-opening of old wounds; but the fact was, his treasons were connected with so many accomplices, that he feared some disgraceful disclosure, and therefore kept out of the way of exciting public attention. Avarice was his master passion; and the sudden idea that there might be treasure in the iron box, which, unwitting of such a thought at the time, he had consigned to Wallace, first bound him a sordid slave. His murmurs for having allowed the box to leave his possession, gave the alarm which caused the disasters at Ellerslie, and his own immediate arrest. He was then sent a prisoner to Cressingham at Stirling; but in his way thither he made his escape; though only to fall into the hands of Soulis. That inhuman chief threatened to return him to his dungeons: and to avoid such a misfortune, Monteith engaged in the conspiracy to bring Lady Helen from the priory, to the arms of this monster. On her escape, Soulis would have wreaked his vengeance on his vile emissary; but Monteith, aware of his design, fled— and fled even into the danger he would have avoided. He fell in with a party of roaming Southrons, who conveyed him to Ayr. Once having immolated his honour, he kept no terms with conscience. Arnulf soon understood what manner of man was in his custody; and by sharing with him in the pleasures of his table, soon drew from him every information respecting the strength and resources of his country. His after-history was a series of secret treacheries to Scotland; and, in return for them, an accumulation of wealth from England; the contemplation of which seemed to be his sole enjoyment. This new offer from De Valence, was therefore greedily embraced. He happened to be at Rutherglen, when Haliburton brought the proposal; and in the cloisters of its church, [The events of Wallace having dictated terms of peace with England, and Monteith pledging himself to that country’s emissary to betray Wallace; having taken place in this church, are traditionary facts.— (1809)] was its fell agreement signed. He transmitted an oath to De Valence, that he would die, or win his hire. And immediately despatching spies to the camp at Roslyn, as soon as he was informed of Wallace’s disappearance, he judged, from his knowledge of that chief’s retentive affections, that whithersoever he intended finally to go, he would first visit Ellerslie, and the tomb of his wife. According to this opinion, he planted his emissaries in favourable situations on the road; and then proceeded himself to intercept his victim at the most probable places.

Not finding him at Bothwell, he was issuing forth to take the way to Ellerslie, when the object of his search presented himself at the opening of the wood. The evil plan too well succeeded.

Triumphant in his deceit, this master of hypocrisy left the barn; in which he had seen Wallace and his young friend lie down, on that ground from which he had determined they should never more arise. Aware that the unconquerable soul of Wallace, would never allow himself to be taken alive, he had stipulated with De Valence, that the delivery of his head should entitle him to a full reward. From Rutherglen to Lumloch, no place had presented itself in which he thought he could so judiciously plant an ambuscade to surprise the unsuspecting Wallace. And in this village he had stationed so large a force of ruthless savages, (brought for the occasion by Haliburton, from the Irish island of Rathlin,) that their employer had hardly a doubt of this night being the last of his too-trusting friend’s existence. These Rathliners neither knew of Wallace, nor his exploits; but the lower order of Scots, however they might fear to succour his distress, loved his person, and felt so bound to him by his actions, that Monteith durst not apply to any one of them to second his villany.

The hour of midnight passed, and yet he could not summon courage to lead his men to their nefarious attack. Twice they urged him, before he arose from his affected sleep: for sleep he could not: guilt had "murdered sleep!" and he lay awake, restless, and longing for the dawn:—and yet, ere that dawn, the deed must be accomplished! A cock crew from a neighbouring farm. "That is the sign of morning, and we have yet done nothing," exclaimed a surly ruffian, who leaned on his battle-axe, in an opposite corner of the apartment. "No, it is the signal of our enemy’s captivity!" cried Monteith.—"Follow me; but gently. If ye speak a word; or a single target rattle, before ye all fall upon him, we are los!i—It is a being of supernatural might, and not a mere man, whom you go to encounter.—He that first disables him, shall have a double reward."

"Depend upon us," returned the sturdiest ruffian: and stealing cautiously out of the cottage, the party advanced with noiseless steps towards the barn. Monteith paused at the door; making a sign to his men to halt, while he listened.—He put his ear to a crevice; not a murmur was within, he gently raised the latch, and setting the door wide open, with his finger on his lip, beckoned his followers. Without venturing to draw a breath; they approached the threshold. The meridian moon shone full into the hovel, and shed a broad light upon their victims. The innocent face of Edwin, rested on the bosom of his friend; and the arm of Wallace lay on the spread straw with which he had covered the tender body of his companion. So fair a picture of mortal friendship, was never before beheld. But the hearts were blind, which looked on it; and Monteith gave the signal. He retreated out of the door, while his men threw themselves forward, to bind Wallace where he lay: but the first man, in his eagerness, striking his head against a joist in the roof, uttered a fierce oath. The noise roused Wallace, whose wakeful senses had rather slumbered than slept, and, opening his eyes, he sprang on his feet. A moment told him enemies were around.— Seeing him rise, they rushed on him, with imprecations. His eyes blazed like two terrible meteors; and, with a sudden motion of his arm, he seemed to hold the men at a distance, while his god-like figure stood, a tower, in collected might. Awe-struck, they paused; but it was only for an instant. The sight of Edwin, now starting from his sleep; his aghast countenance, while he felt for his weapons; his cry, when he recollected they were gone; inspired the assassins with fresh courage. Battle-axes, swords, and rattling chains, now flashed before the eyes of Wallace. The pointed steel, in many places entered his body; while, with part of a broken bench, which chanced to lie near him, he defended himself and Edwin; from this merciless host. Edwin, seeing nought but the death of his friend before his sight, regardless of himself, made a spring from his side, and snatched a dagger froth the belt of one of the murderers. The ruffian instantly caught the intrepid boy by the throat; and in that horrible clutch, would certainly have deprived him of life, had not the lion grasp of Wallace seized the man in his arms; and with a pressure that made his mouth and nostrils burst with blood, compelled him to forego his hold. Edwin released, Wallace dropped his assailant, who, staggering a few paces, fell senseless to the ground, and instantly expired.

The conflict now became doubly desperate.—Edwin’s dagger, twice defended the breast of his friend. Two of the assassins, he stabbed to the heart.—"Murder that urchin!" cried Monteith; who, seeing from without, the carnage of his men, feared that Wallace might yet make his escape. "Hah!" cried Wallace, at the sound of Monteith’s voice, giving such an order;—" then we are betrayed—but not by Heaven! Strike, one of you, that angel youth," cried he, "and you will incur damnation !—.He spoke to the winds. They poured towards Edwin. Wallace, with a giant’s strength, dispersed them as they advanced: the beam of wood fell on the heads, the breasts of his assailants. Himself, bleeding at every pore, felt not a smart while yet he defended Edwin. But a shout was heard from the door: a faint cry was heard at his side.— He looked around. Edwin lay extended on the ground, with an arrow quivering in his breast: his closing eyes still looked upwards to his friend. The beam fell from the hands of Wallace. He threw himself on his knees beside him. The dying boy pressed his hand to his heart, and dropped his head upon his bosom.—Wallace moved not, spoke not. His hand was bathed in the blood of his friend, but not a pulse beat beneath it; no breath warmed the paralysed chill of his face, as it hung over the motionless lips of Edwin.

The men were more terrified at this unresisting stillness, than at the invincible prowess of his arm, and stood gazing on him in mute wonder. But Monteith, in whom the fell appetite of avarice had destroyed every perception of humanity, sent in other ruffians with new orders, to bind Wallace. They approached him with terror: two of the strongest, stealing behind him, and taking advantage of his face being bent upon that of his murdered Edwin, each in the same moment seized his hands. As they griped them fast, and others advanced eagerly to fasten the bands, he looked calmly up: but it was a dreadful calm; it spoke of despair; of the full completion of all woe.—"Bring chains," cried one of the men, "he will burst these thongs."