"Then you would have pitied her?" rejoined Lady Mar.

"He cannot be a man that would not pity a woman under such
circumstances."

"Then you would not have consigned her to such a fate?"

Wallace was startled by the peculiar tone in which this simple question
was asked. It recalled the action in the citadel, and, unconsciously
turning a penetrating look on her, his eyes met hers. He need not have
heard further to have learned more. She hastily looked down, and
colored; and he, wishing to misunderstand a language so disgraceful to
herself, so dishonoring to her husband, gave some trifling answer; then
making a slight observation about the earl, he advanced to him. Lord
Mar was become tired with so gala a scene, and, taking the arm of
Wallace, they returned together into the house.

Edwin soon followed with Murray, gladly arriving in time enough to see
their little pinnacle draw up under the castle and throw out her
moorings. The countess, too, descried its streamers, and hastening
into the room where she knew the chiefs were yet assembled, though the
wearied earl had retired to repose, inquired the reason of that boat
having drawn so near the castle.

"That it may take us from it, fair aunt," replied Murray.

The countess fixed her eyes with an unequivocal expression upon
Wallace. "My gratitude is ever due to your kindness, noble lady," said
he, still wishing to be blind to what he could not perceive, "and that
we may ever deserve it, we must keep the enemy from your doors."