"I fear me, Nigel, I have but little of my mother's blood within my
veins. I cannot bid them throb and bound as hers with patriotic love and
warrior fire. A lowly cot with him I loved were happiness for me."

"But that cot must rest upon a soil unchained, sweet Agnes, or joy could
have no resting there. Wherefore did Scotland rise against her
tyrant--why struggle as she hath to fling aside her chains? Was it her
noble sons? Alas, alas! degenerate and base, they sought chivalric fame;
forgetful of their country, they asked for knighthood from proud
Edward's hand, regardless that that hand had crowded fetters on their
fatherland, and would enslave their sons. Not to them did Scotland owe
the transient gleam of glorious light which, though extinguished in the
patriot's blood, hath left its trace behind. With the bold, the hardy,
lowly Scot that gleam had birth; they would be free to them. What
mattered that their tyrant was a valiant knight, a worthy son of
chivalry: they saw but an usurper, an enslaver, and they rose and
spurned his smiles--aye, and they _will_ rise again. And wert thou one
of them, sweet girl; a cotter's wife, thou too wouldst pine for freedom.
Yes; Scotland will bethink her of her warrior's fate, and shout aloud
revenge for Wallace!"

Either his argument was unanswerable, or the energy of his voice and
manner carried conviction with them, but a brighter glow mantled the
maiden's cheek, and with it stole the momentary shame--the wish, the
simple words that she had spoken could be recalled.

"Give us but a king for whom to fight--a king to love, revere, obey--a
king from whose hand knighthood were an honor, precious as life itself,
and there are noble hearts enough to swear fealty to him, and bright