They passed through the forest of Glenfinlass; and morning and evening
still found them threading its unsuspected solitudes in unmolested
security; night, too, watched their onward march.
The sun had just risen as the little band of patriots, the hope of
freedom, emerged upon the eastern bank of Loch Lomond. The bases of
the mountains were yet covered with the dispersing mist of the morning,
and hardly distinguishable from the blue waters of the lake, which
lashed the shore. The newly-awakened sheep bleated from the hills, and
the umbrageous herbage, dropping dew, seemed glittering with a thousand
fairy gems.
"Where is the man who would not fight for such a country?" exclaimed
Murray, as he stepped over a bridge of interwoven trees, which crossed
one of the mountain streams. "This land was not made for slaves. Look
at these bulwarks of nature! Every mountain-head which forms this
chain of hills is an impregnable rampart against invasion. If Baliol
had possessed but half a heart, Edward might have returned even worse
than Caesar-without a cockle to decorate his helmet."
"Baliol has found the oblivion he incurred," returned Wallace; "his
son, perhaps, may better deserve the scepter of such a country.
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