"We go," said the venerable fathers, "to pray for your
welfare; and sure we are, a crown will bless our country's benefactor,
here or in heaven!"
"In heaven," replied Wallace, shaking the plumes of his bonnet over his
eyes, to hide the moisture which suffused them; "I can have no right to
any other crown."
"Yes," cried a hoary-headed shepherd, "you free your country from
tyrants, and the people's hearts will proclaim their deliverer their
sovereign!"
"May your rightful monarch, worthy patriarch," said Wallace, "whether a
Bruce of a Baliol, meet with equal zeal from Scotland at large; and
tyranny must then fall before courage and loyalty!"
The women wept as they clung to his hand and the daughter of Ireland,
holding up her child in her arms, presented it to him. "Look on my
son!" cried she, with energy; "the first word he speaks shall be
Wallace; the second liberty. And every drop of milk he draws from my
bosom, shall be turned into blood to nerve a conquering arm, or to flow
for his country!"
At this speech all the women held up their children toward him.
"Here," cried they, "we devote them to Heaven, and to our country!
Adopt them, noble Wallace, to be thy followers in arms, when, perhaps,
their fathers are laid low!"
Unable to speak, Wallace pressed their little faces separately to his
lips, then returning them to their mothers, laid his hand on his heart,
and answered in an agitated voice.
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