plaid of Wallace were dyed from head to foot; his own brave blood, and
the ferocious stream from his enemies, mingled in one horrid hue upon
his garments.

"Wallace! Wallace!" cried the stentorian lungs of Kirkpatrick. In a
moment Wallace was at his side, and found him wrestling with two men.
The light of a single lamp, suspended from the rafters, fell direct
upon the combatants. A dagger was pointed at the life of the old
knight, but Wallace laid the holder of it dead across the body of his
intended victim, and catching the other assailant by the throat, threw
him prostrate to the ground.

"Spare me, for the honor of knighthood!" cried the conquered.

"For my honor you shall die!" cried Kirkpatrick. His sword was already
at the heart of the Englishman. Wallace beat it back. "Kirkpatrick,
he is my prisoner, and I give him life."

"You know not what you do," cried the old knight, struggling with
Wallace to release his sword-arm. "This is De Valence!"

"Quarter!" reiterated the panting and hard-pressed earl. "Noble
Wallace, my life! For I am wounded."

"Sooner take my own!" cried the determined Kirkpatrick, fixing his foot
on the neck of the prostrate man, and trying to wrench his hand from
the grasp of his commander.

"Shame!" cried Wallace; "you must strike through me to kill any wounded
man I hear cry for quarter! Release the earl, for your own honor."