He was then alone.
For some time he stood with clasped hands, looking intently on the body
as it lay extended before him. "Graham! Graham!" cried he, at last,
in a voice of unutterable grief; "dost thou not rise at thy general's
voice? Oh! is this to be the tidings I am to send to the brave father
who intrusted to me his son? Lost in the prime of youth, in the
opening of thy renown, is it thus that all which is good is to be
martyrized by the enemies of Scotland?" He sunk gradually on his knees
beside him. "And shall I not look once more on that face," said he,
which ever turned toward mine with looks of faith and love?" The
shroud was drawn down by his hand. He started on his feet at the
sight. The changing touch of death had altered every feature-had
deepened the paleness of the bloodless corpse into an ashy hue. "Where
is the countenance of my friend?" cried he. "Where the spirit which
once moved in beauty and animating light over this face! Gone; and all
I see before me is a mass of molded clay! Graham! Graham!" cried he,
looking upward, "thou art not here. No more can I recognize my friend
in this deserted habitation of thy soul.
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