to relinquish his prey, and was carried away by his men covered with wounds; while Helen found herself in the presence of a gentle and courteous Scottish warrior, who conveyed her to a hermit’s cell near at hand.  Without revealing his name he passed on his way, declaring that he went to arouse a few brave spirits to arms.  Brief as the interview had been, Helen knew when it was ended that she had given her heart to the unknown knight.

As her father and mother lay one dark night in Dumbarton Castle, a fearful uproar arose without their prison—­the clashing of swords, the thud of falling bodies, the groans of wounded.

“There is an attack,” cried the earl.

“Nay, who would venture to attack such a fortress as this?” answered Lady Mar.

“Hark! it is the slogan of Sir William Wallace.  Oh, for a sword!” exclaimed the earl.

A voice was heard begging for mercy—­the voice of De Valence, the governor.

“You shall die!” was the stern answer.

“Nay, Kirkpatrick, I give him life.”  The accents were Wallace’s.

A battering-ram broke down the prison-door.  There stood Wallace and his men, their weapons and armour covered with blood.  De Valence, evading the clutch of Kirkpatrick, thrust his dagger into Wallace’s side and fled.

“It is nothing,” said Wallace, as he staunched the wound with his scarf.

“So is your mercy rewarded,” muttered the grim Kirkpatrick.

“So am I true to my duty,” returned Wallace, “though De Valence is a traitor to his.”

The Countess of Mar looked for the first time upon Wallace’s countenance.  He was the enemy of her kinsmen of the house of Cummin; unknown to her husband, she had sought to betray him to one of these kinsmen; and now, as this beautiful woman beheld the man she had tried to injure, a sense of shame, accompanied by a strange fascination, entered her bosom.

“How does my soul seem to pour itself out to this man!” she said to herself.  “Hardly have I seen this William Wallace, and yet my very being is lost in his!”

Love mingled with ambition in her uneasy mind.  Her husband was old and wounded; his life would not be long.  Wallace had the genius of a conqueror.  Might he not be proclaimed king of Scotland?  She threw herself assiduously into his company during the days that followed.  At last, with tears in eyes, she confessed her love, thinking, in her folly, that she could move the heart of one who had consecrated himself to the service of Scotland and the memory of Marion.

“Your husband, Lady Mar,” he said with gentleness, “is my friend; had I even a heart to give to women, not one sigh should arise in it to his dishonour.  But I am deaf to women, and the voice of love sounds like the funeral knell of her who will never breathe it to me more.”

He rose, and ere the countess could reply, a messenger entered with news from Ayr.  Eighteen Scottish chiefs had been treacherously put to death, and others were imprisoned and awaiting execution.  Wallace and his men marched straight to the castle of Ayr, surprised it while the English lords were feasting within, and set it afire.  Those who escaped the flames either fell by Scottish steel, or yielded themselves prisoners.