Chapter XXV.

The Citadel.



During the repast, the countess often fixed her unrestrained gaze on
the manly yet youthful countenance of the heroic Wallace. His plumed
helmet was now laid aside; and the heavy corselet unbuckled from his
breast, disclosing the symmetry of his fine form, left its graceful
movements to be displayed with advantage by the flexible folds of his
simple tartan vest. Was it the formidable Wallace she looked on,
bathed in the blood of Heselrigge, and breathing vengeance against the
adherents of the tyrant Edward! It was, then, the enemy of her kinsmen
of the house of Cummin! It was the man for whom her husband had
embraced so many dangers! It was the man whom she had denounced to one
of those kinsmen, and whom she had betrayed to the hazard of an
ignominious death! But where now was the fierce rebel-the ruiner of
her peace-the outlaw whom she had wished in his grave?

The last idea was distraction. She could have fallen at his feet, and
bathing them with her tears, have implored his pity and forgiveness.
Even as the wish sprung in her mind, she asked herself-"Did he know
all, could he pardon such a weight of injuries?" She cast her eyes
with a wild expression upon his face. The mildness of heaven was
there; and the peace, too, she might have thought, had not his eye
carried a chastened sadness in its look, which told that something dire
and sorrowful was buried deep within. It was a look that dissolved the