"Are we to die?" cried she to Wallace, in a voice of horror.

"I trust that God has decreed otherwise," was his reply. "Compose
yourself; all may yet be well."

Lord Mar, from his yet unhealed wounds, could not swim; Wallace
therefore tore up the benches of the rowers, and binding them into the
form of a small raft, made it the vehicle for the earl and countess,
with her two maids and the child. While the men were towing it, and
buffeting with it through the breakers, he too threw himself into the
sea to swim by its side, and be in readiness in case of accident.

Having gained the shore, or rather the broken rocks, that lie at the
foot of the stupendous craigs which surround the Isle of Arran, Wallace
and his sturdy assistants conveyed the countess and her terrified women
up their acclivities. Fortunately for the shipwrecked voyagers, though
the wind raged, its violence was of some advantage, for it nearly
cleared the heavens of clouds, and allowed the moon to send forth her
guiding light. By her lamp one of the men discovered the mouth of a
cavern, where Wallace gladly sheltered his dripping charges.

The child, whom he had guarded in his own arms during the difficult
ascent, he now laid on the bosom of its mother. Lady mar kissed the
hand that relinquished it, and gave way to a flood of grateful tears.

The earl, as he sunk almost powerless against the side of the cave, yet
had strength enough to press Wallace to his heart. "Ever preserver of
me and mine!" cried he, "how must I bless thee!-My wife, my child-"

"Have been saved to you, my friend," interrupted Wallace, "by the