Ireland threw open the door which led into the hall, and there, on the
ground, on pallets of straw, lay most of the wounded Southrons. Some
of their dimmed eyes had discerned their preserver, when he discovered
them expiring on the rock; and on sight of him now, they uttered such a
piercing cry of gratitude, that, surprised, he stood for a moment. In
that moment, five or six of the poor wounded wretches crawled to his
feet. "Our friend! our preserver!" burst from their lips, as they
kissed the edge of his plaid.

"Not to me, not to me!" exclaimed Wallace. "I am a soldier like
yourselves. I have only acted a soldier's part; but I am a soldier of
freedom, you of a tyrant, who seeks to enslave the world. This makes
the difference between us; this lays you at my feet, when I would more
willingly receive you into my arms as brothers in one generous cause."

"We are yours," was the answering exclamation of those who knelt, and
of those who raised their feebler voices from their beds of straw. A
few only remained silent. With many kind expressions of acceptance,
Wallace disengaged himself from those who clung around him, and then
moved toward the sick, who seemed too ill to speak. While repeating
the same consolatory language to them, he particularly observed an old
man who was lying between two young ones, and still kept a profound
silence. His rough features were marked with many a scar, but there
was a meek resignation in her face that powerfully struck Wallace.
When the chief drew near, the veteran raised himself on his arm, and
bowed his head with a respectful air. Wallace stopped. "You are an
Englishman?"

"I am, sir, and have no services to offer you. These two young men on