Chapter XXI.
Loch Lomond.
Profound as was the rest of Wallace, yet the first clarion of the lark
awakened him. The rosy dawn shone in at the window, and a fresh breeze
wooed him with its inspiring breath to rise and meet it. But the
impulse was in his own mind; he needed nothing outward to call him to
action. Rising immediately, he put on his glittering hauberk; and
issuing from the tower, raised his bugle to his lips, and blew so
rousing a blast, that in an instant the whole rock was covered with
soldiers.
Wallace placed his helmet on his head, and advanced toward them, just
as Edwin had joined him, and Sir Roger Kirkpatrick appeared from the
tower. "Blessed be this morn!" cried the old knight. "My sword
springs from its scabbard to meet it; and ere its good steel be
sheathed again," continued he, shaking it sternly, "what deaths may dye
its point!"
Wallace shuddered at the ferocity with which his colleague contemplated
this feature of war from which every humane soldier would seek to turn
his thoughts, that he might encounter it with the steadiness of a man,
and not the irresolution of a woman. To hail the field of blood with
the fierceness of a hatred eager for the slaughter of its victim-to
know any joy in combat but that each contest might render another less
necessary-did not enter into the imagination of Wallace until he had
heard and seen the infuriate Kirkpatrick.
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