Wallace had
passed that hour, twelve months ago, alone with his Marion. They sat
together in the window of the eastern tower of Ellerslie: and while he
listened to the cheerful lilts to which their servants were dancing,
the hand of his lovely bride was clasped in his. Marion smiled and
talked of the happiness which should await them in the year to come.
"Ay, my beloved," answered he, "more than thy beauteous self will then
fill these happy arms! Thy babe, my wife, will then hand at thy bosom,
to bless with a parent's joys thy grateful husband!"
That time was now come round, and where was Marion?-cold in the grave.
Where that smiling babe?-a murderer's steel had reached it ere it saw
the light.
Wallace groaned at these recollections; he struck his hand forcibly on
his bursting heart, and fled from the room. The noise of the harps,
the laughing of the dancers, prevented his emotions from being
observed; and rushing far from the joyous tumult, till its sounds died
in the breeze, or were only brought to his ear by fitful gusts, he
speeded along the margin of the lake, as if he would have flown even
from himself. But memory, racking memory, followed him.
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