he, turning to the mangled bodies which the men were now carrying away
to the precipice of the Clyde, "have divorced woman's love from my
heart. I am all my country's, or I am nothing."

"Nothing!" reiterated Murray, laying his hand upon that of Wallace, as
it rested upon the hilt of the sword on which he leaned. "Is the
friend of mankind, the champion of Scotland, the beloved of a thousand
valuable hearts, nothing? Nay, art thou not the agent of Heaven, to be
the scourge of a tyrant? Art thou not the deliverer of thy country?"

Wallace turned his bright eye upon Murray with an expression of mingled
feelings. "May I be all this, my friend, and Wallace must yet be
happy! But speak not to me of love and woman; tell me not of those
endearing qualities I have prized too tenderly, and which are now
buried to me forever beneath the ashes of Ellerslie."

"Not under the ashes of Ellerslie," cried Murray, "sleep the remains of
your lovely wife." Wallace's penetrating eye turned quick upon him.
Murray continued: "My cousin's pitying soul stretched itself toward
them; by her directions they were brought from your oratory in the
rock, and deposited, with all holy rites, in the cemetery at Bothwell."

The glow that now animated the before chilled heart of Wallace,
overspread his face. His eyes spoke volumes of gratitude, his lips
moved, but his feelings were too big for utterance, and, fervently
pressing the hand of Murray, to conceal emotions ready to shake his
manhood, he turned away, and walked toward the cliff.

When all the slain were lowered to their last beds, a young priest, who
came in the company of Scrymgeour, gave the funeral benediction both to