The objects of their fond and fervent prayers, Wallace and his little
army, were rapidly pursuing their march. It was midnight-all was
silent as they hurried through the glen, as they ascended with flying
footsteps the steep acclivities that led to the cliffs which overhung
the vale of Ellerslie. Wallace must pass along their brow. Beneath
was the tomb of his sacrificed Marion! He rushed forward to snatch one
look, even of the roof which shrouded her beloved remains.
But in the moment before he mounted the intervening height, a soldier
in English armor crossed the path, and was seized by his men. One of
them would have cut him down, but Wallace turned away the weapon.
"Hold, Scot!" cried he, "you are not a Southron, to strike the
defenseless. The man has no sword."
The reflection on their enemy which this plea of mercy contained
reconciled the impetuous Scots to the clemency of their leader. The
rescued man, joyfully recognizing the voice of Wallace, exclaimed, "It
is my lord! It is Sir William Wallace that has saved my life a second
time!"
"Who are you?" asked Wallace; "that helmet can cover no friend of mine."
"I am your servant Dugald," returned the man; "he whom your brave arm
saved from the battle-ax of Arthur Heselrigge.
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