The Scottish Chiefs by Jane Porter (classic books for 11 year olds txt) 📗

generals of King Edward as one who estimated his honor as a mere counter of traffic, 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 authorize 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 in 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!"

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 approval. Monteith was then castellan of Newark, where he had immured himself for many months, under a pretense of the reopening 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 honor, he kept no terms with conscience. Arnulf soon understood what manner of man was in his custody; and by sharing with him 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 comtemplation 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** was its fell agreement signed. He transmitted an oath to De Valence that he would die or win his hire. And immediately dispatching spies to the camp at Roslyn, as soon as he was informed of Wallace's disappearance, he judged, from the 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 favorable 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 rise. 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 succor 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 villainy.

**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.

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 the neighboring farm.

"That is the sign of morning, and we have yet done nothing," exclaimed a surly ruffian, who leaned on his battle-ax in an ssopposite 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 lost. It is a being of supernatural might, not a mere man, whom ye 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 toward 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 sprung 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 naught but the death of his friend before his sight, regardless of himself, made a spring from his side, and snatched a dagger from 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 his 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 toward 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, he 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 looking upward 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 paralyzed 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, the 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."

"You may bind me with a hair," said he; "I contend no more." The bonds were fastened on his wrists; and then, turning toward the lifeless body of Edwin, he raised it gently in his arms. The rosy red of youth yet tinged his cold cheek; his parted lips still beamed with the same—but the breath that had so sweetly informed them, was flown. "Oh! my best brother that ever I had," cried Wallace in a sudden transport, and kissing his pale forehead; "my sincerest friend in my greatest need! In thee was truth, manhood, and nobleness; in thee was all man's fidelity with woman's tenderness. My friend, my brother, oh! would to God I had died for thee!"

Chapter LXXX.

Huntingtower.

Lord Ruthven was yet musing, in fearful anxiety, on Wallace's solemn adieu, and the confirmation which the recitals of Grimsby and Hay