"What remembrance can wound you, my general? The Abbott of St. Colomba
has often told me that memory is a balm to every ill with the good; and
have not you been good to all? The benefactor, the preserver of
thousands! Surely, if man can be happy, it must be Sir William
Wallace!"

"And so I am, my Edwin, when I contemplate the end. But, in the
interval, with all thy sweet philosophy, is it not written here 'that
man was made to mourn?'" He put his hand on his heart; and then, after
a short pause, resumed: "Doubly I mourn, doubly am I bereaved, for, had
it not been for an enemy, more fell than he who beguiled Adam of
Paradise, I might have been a father; I might have lived to have
gloried in a son like thee; I might have seen my wedded angel clasp
such a blessing to her bosom; but now, both are cold in clay! These
are the recollections which sometimes draw tears down thy leader's
cheeks. And do not believe, brother of my soul," said he, pressing the
now weeping Edwin to his breast, "that they disgrace his manhood. The
Son of God wept over the tomb of his friend; and shall I deny a few
tears, dropped in stealth, over the grave of my wife and child?"

Edwin sobbed aloud. "No son could love you dearer than I do. Ah, let
my duty, my affection, teach you to forget you have lost a child. I
will replace all to you but your Marion; and her, the pitying Son of
Mary will restore to you in the kingdom of heaven."

Wallace looked steadfastly at the young preacher. "'Out of the mouths
of babes we shall hear wisdom!' Thine, dear Edwin, I will lay to
heart. Thou shalt comfort me when my hermit-soul shuts out all the
world besides."