DURING the repast, the Countess often fixed her unrestrained gaze on the manly, yet youthful countenance of the heroic Wallace. His plumed helmet was now laid aside; and the heavy corselet unbuckled from his breast, disclosing the symmetry of his fine form, left its graceful movements to be displayed with advantage by the flexible folds of his simple tartan vest. Was it the formidable Wallace she looked on ;—bathed in the blood of Heselrigge, and breathing vengeance against the adherents of the tyrant Edward ?—It was, then, the enemy of her kinsmen of the house of Cummin! It was the man, for whom her husband had embraced so many dangers! it was the man whom she had denounced to one of those kinsmen; and whom she had betrayed to the hazard of an ignominious death! But where, now, was the fierce rebel,—the ruiner of her peace,-—the outlaw whom she had wished in his grave?

The last idea was distraction. She could have fallen at his feet, and bathing them with her tears, have implored his pity and forgiveness. Even as the wish sprung in her mind, she asked herself—"Did he know all, could he pardon such a weight of injuries?" She cast her eyes with a wild expression upon his face. The mildness of heaven was there; and the peace too, she might have thought, had not his eye carried a chastened sadness in its look, which told that something dire and sorrowful was buried deep within. It was a look that dissolved the soul which gazed on it. The Countess felt her heart throb violently. At that moment Wallace addressed a few words to her, but she knew not what they were; her soul was in tumults, and a mist passed over her sight, which, for a moment, seemed to wrap all her senses in a trance.

The unconscious object of these emotions, bowed to her inarticulate reply; supposing that the mingling voices of others, had made him hear hers indistinctly.

Lady Mar found her situation so strange, and her agitation so inexplicable, that feeling it impossible to remain longer without giving way to a burst of tears, she rose from her seat, and forcing a smile with her curtesy to the company, left the room.

On gaining the upper apartment, she threw herself along the nearest couch, and striking her breast, exclaimed, "What is this within me? How does my soul seem to pour itself out to this man! Oh! how does it extend itself, as if it would absorb his, even at my eyes! Only twelve hours - hardly twelve hours, have I seen this William Wallace, and yet my very being is now lost in his!"

While thus speaking, she covered her face with her handkerchief, but no tears now started to be wiped away. The fire in her veins dried their source, and with burning blushes she rose from her seat. "Fatal, fatal hour! Why didst thou come here, too infatuating Wallace, to rob me of my peace? O! why did I ever look on that face ?—or rather, blessed saints!" cried she, clasping her hands in wild passion, "why did I ever shackle this hand ?—why did I ever render such a sacrifice necessary! Wallace is now free; had I been free ?—But wretch, wretch, wretch:—I could tear out this betrayed heart !—I could trample on that of the infatuating husband, that made me such a slave!" She gasped for breath, and again seating herself, reclined her beating temples against the couch.

She was now silent; but thoughts, not less intense, not less fraught with self-reproach and anguish, occupied her mind. Should this god of her idolatry ever discover that it was her information, which had sent Earl de Valence’s men to surround him in the mountains; should he ever learn that at Bothwell, she had betrayed the cause on which he had set his life; she felt that moment would be her last. For now, to sate her eyes with gazing on him, to hear the sound of his voice, to receive his smiles, seemed to her, a joy she could only surrender with her existence. What then was the prospect of so soon losing him, even to crown himself with honour, but to her a living death!

To defer his departure, was all her study,—all her hope; and fearful that his restless valour might urge him to accompany Murray in his intended convoy of Helen to the Tweed, she determined to persuade her nephew to set off without the knowledge of his general. She did not allow that it was the youthful beauty, and more lovely mind of her daughter-in-law, which she feared; even to herself she cloaked her alarm, under the plausible excuse of care for the chieftain’s safety. Composed by this mental arrangement, her disturbed features became smooth; and with even a sedate air, she received her lord, and his brave friends, when they soon after entered the chamber.

By this argument Murray was persuaded to relinquish the idea of conveying Helen to Dumbarton but remembering what Wallace had said respecting the safety of a religious sanctuary, he advised that she should be left at St. Fillan’s till the cause of Scotland might be more firmly established. "Send a messenger to inform her of the rescue of Dumbarton, and of your and my uncle’s health:" continued he; "and that will be sufficient to make her happy."

Absorbed in one thought, every charm she possessed was directed to the same point. She played finely on the lute, and sung with all the grace of her country. What gentle heart was not to be affected by music? She determined it should be one of the spells by which she meant to attract Wallace. She took up one of the lutes, (which with other musical instruments, decorated the apartments of the luxurious De Valence,) and touching it with exquisite delicacy, breathed the most pathetic air her memory could dictate.

"If on the heath she moved, her breast was whiter than the down of Cana;
If on the sea-beat shore, than the foam of the rolling ocean.
Her eyes were two stars of light. Her face was heaven’s bow in showers;
Her dark hair flowed around it, like the streaming clouds.
Thou wert the dwelier of souls, white-handed Strinadona!"

Wallace rose from his chair, which had been placed near her. She had designed that these tender words of the bard of Morven, should suggest to her hearer the observation of her own resembling beauties. But he saw in them, only the lovely dweller of his own soul: and walking towards a window, stood there with his eyes fixed on the descending sun. "So hath set all my joys. So is life to me, a world without a sun,—cold, cold, and charmless !"

The Countess vainly believed that some sensibility advantageous to her new passion, had caused the agitation with which she saw him depart from her side; and, intoxicated with the idea, she ran through many a melodious descant, till touching on the first strains of Thusa ha measg na reultan mor, she saw Wallace start from his contemplative position, and with a pale countenance leave the room. There was something in this abruptness, which excited the alarm of the Earl of Lennox, who had also been listening to the songs: he rose instantly, and overtaking the chief at the threshold, inquired what was the matter? "Nothing;" answered Wallace, forcing a smile, in which the agony of his mind was too truly imprinted; "but music displeases me." With this reply he disappeared. The excuse seemed strange, but it was true; for her, whose notes were to him sweeter than the thrush; whose angel strains, used to greet his morning and evening hours, was silent in the grave! He should no more see her white hand upon the lute; he should no more behold that bosom, brighter than foam upon the wave, heave in tender transport at his applause! What then was music to him? A soulless sound; or a direful knell, to recall the remembrance of all he had lost.

Such were his thoughts, when the words of Thusa ha measg rung from Lady Mar’s voice. Those were the strains which Halbert used to breathe from his harp, to call his Marion to her nightly slumbers:— those were the strains with which that faithful servant had announced, that she slept to wake no more!

What wonder, then, that Wallace fled from the apartment, and buried himself, and his aroused grief, amid the distant solitudes of the beacon-hill! 

While looking over the shoulder of his uncle, on the station which Stirling held amid the Ochil hills, Edwin had at intervals cast a sidelong glance upon the changing complexion of his commander; and no sooner did he see him hurry from the room, than fearful of some disaster having befallen the garrison, (which Wallace did not choose immediately to mention), he also stole out of the apartment.

After seeking the object of his anxiety for a long time without avail, he was returning on his steps, when attracted by the splendour of the moon silvering the beacon-hill, he ascended, to, once at least, tread that acclivity in light, which he had so miraculously passed in darkness. Scarce a zephyr fanned the sleeping air. He moved on with a flying step, till a deep sigh arrested him. He stopped and listened: it was repeated again and again. He gently drew nearer, and saw a human figure reclining on the ground. The head of the apparent mourner was unbonneted, and the brightness of the moon shone on his polished forehead. Edwin thought the sound of those sighs was the same he had often heard from the breast of Wallace, and he no longer doubted having found the object of his search. He walked forward. Again the figure sighed; but with a depth so full of piercing woe, that Edwin hesitated. 

Wallace pressed his hand in silence. "Then some evil has befallen you ?" inquired Edwin, in an agitated voice; "you do not speak !"

"And so I am, my Edwin, when I contemplate the end. But, in the interval, with all thy sweet philosophy, is it not written here that man was made to mourn?" He put his hand on his heart; and then, after a short pause, resumed :—" Doubly I mourn, doubly am I bereaved; for, had it not been for an enemy; more fell than he which beguiled Adam of Paradise, I might have been a father; I might have lived to have gloried in a son like thee; I might have seen my wedded angel, clasp such a blessing to her bosom; but now, both are cold in clay! These are the recollections, which sometimes draw tears down thy leader’s cheeks. And, do not believe, brother of my soul (said he, pressing the now weeping Edwin to his breast,) that they disgrace his manhood. The Son of God wept over the tomb of his friend; and shall I deny a few tears, dropped in stealth, over the grave of my wife and child ?"

Edwin sobbed aloud: "No son could love you dearer than I do. Ah, let my duty, my affection, teach you to forget you have lost a child. I will replace all to you, but your Marion; and she, the pitying Son of Mary will restore to you in the kingdom of heaven."

"What tender affections I can spare from those resplendent regions;" answered Wallace, pointing to the skies, "are thine. The fervours of my once ardent soul, are Scotland’s, or I die. But thou art too young, my brother," added he, interrupting himself, "to understand all the feelings, all the seeming contradictions, of my contending heart."

"Not so" answered Edwin, with a modest blush; "what was Lady Marion’s you now devote to Scotland. The blaze of those affections which were hers, would consume your being, did you not pour it forth on your country. Were you not a patriot, grief would prey upon your life."

"You have read me, Edwin;" replied Wallace; "and that you may never love to idolatry, learn this also. Though Scotland lay in ruin, I was happy :— I felt no captivity, while in Marion’s arms: even oppression was forgotten, when she made the sufferer’s tears cease to flow. She absorbed my wishes, my thoughts, my life !—and she was wrested from me, that I might feel myself a slave; that the iron might enter into my soul, with which I was to pull down tyranny, and free my country. Mark the sacrifice, young man," cried Wallace, starting on his feet; "it even now smokes—and the flames are here inextinguishable." He struck his hand upon his breast. "Never love as I have loved; and you will be a patriot, without needing to taste my bitter cup I"

Wallace in a moment recovered from the transient wildness which had possessed him: "None, my Edwin;" replied he; "the affections are never criminal, but when by their excess, they blind us to other duties. The offence of mine is judged, and I bow to the penalty. When that is paid, then may my ashes sleep in rescued Scotland !.— Then may the God of victory, and of mercy, grant that the seraph spirits of my wife and infant, may meet my pardoned soul in paradise." Edwin wept afresh. "Cease, dear boy!" said he; "these presages are very comforting; they whisper, that the path of glory leads thy brother to his home." As he spoke, he took the arm of the silent Edwin (Whose sensibility locked up the powers of speech), and putting it through his, they descended the hill together.

"Only a little whirlwind of my aunt’s; in which we have had airs, and showers, enough to wet us through, and blow us dry again."

"Ah, where is protection, without Sir William Wallace?" cried she. "If he go, our enemies will return. Who then will repel them from these walls? Who will defend your wife, and only son, from falling again into the hands of our doubly incensed foes ?"