" As she spoke, her turning eye met the fixed gaze of
Wallace. His countenance became agitated, and dropping on his knee
beside her; "Gracious lady;" cried he, "mine is the right of gratitude;
but it is dear land precious to me; a debt that my life will not be
able to repay. I was ignorant of all your goodness, when we parted in
the hermit's cave. But the spirit of an angel like yourself, Lady
Helen, will whisper to you all her widowed husband's thanks." He
pressed her hand fervently between his, and rising, left the room.
Helen looked on with an immovable eye, in which the heroic vow of her
soul spoke in every beam; but as he arose, even then she felt its
frailty, for her spirit seemed leaving her; and as he disappeared from
the door, her world seemed shut from her eyes. Not to think of him was
impossible; how to think of him was in her own power. Her heart felt
as if suddenly made a desert. But heroism was there. She had looked
upon the Heaven-dedicated Wallace; on the widowed mourner of Marion;
the saint and the hero; the being of another world! and as such she
would regard him, till in the realms of purity she might acknowledge
the brother of her soul!
A sacred inspiration seemed to illuminate her features, and to brace
with the vigor of immortality those limbs which before had sunk under
her.
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