not bind my conscience on subjects I do not know. If you dare trust
the word of a Scotsman and a friend, speak out; and if the matter be
honest, my honor is your pledge."

"You will not swear?"

"No."

"Then I must not trust you."

"Then our business is at an end," returned Wallace, rising, "and I may
return home."

"Stop!" cried Monteith. "Forgive me, my old companion, that I have
dared to hesitate. These are, indeed, times of such treason to honor,
that I do not wonder you should be careful how you swear; but the
nature of the confidence reposed in me will. I hope, convince you that
I ought not to share it rashly. Of any one but you, whose truth stands
unsullied, amidst the faithlessness of the best, I would exact oaths on
oaths; but your words is given, and on that I rely. Await me here."

Monteith unlocked a door which had been concealed by the tapestry, and
after a short absence re-entered with a small iron box. He set it on
the table near his friend, then went to the great door, which he had
before so carefully closed, tried that the bolts were secure, and
returned, with a still more pallid countenance, toward the table.
Wallace, surprised at so much actions, awaited with wonder the promised
explanation. Monteith sat down with his hand on the box, and fixing
his eyes on it, began: