Edwin and Murray turned to follow the lieutenant, who, preceding them,
stopped at the end of the gallery. "Here," said he, "is Lady Ruthven's
habitation; and-alas! not better than the countess'." While he spoke,
he threw open the door, and discovered its sad inmate also asleep. But
when the glad voice of her son pierced her ear-when his fond embraces
clung to her bosom, her surprise and emotions were almost
insupportable. Hardly crediting her senses, that he whom she had
believed was safe in the cloisters of St. Colomba, could be within the
dangerous walls of Stirling; that it was his mailed breast that pressed
against her bosom; that it was his voice she heard exclaiming, "Mother,
we come to give you freedom!" all appeared to her like a dream of
madness.
She listened, she felt him, she found her cheek wet with his rapturous
tears. "Am I in my right mind?" cried she, looking at him with a
fearful, yet overjoyed countenance; "am I not mad? Oh! tell me," cried
she, turning to Murray, and the lieutenant, "is this my son that I see,
or has terror turned my brain?"
"It is indeed your son, your Edwin, my very self," returned he, alarmed
at the expression of her voice and countenance.
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