It ran thus:
"I have just returned to Huntingtower, after the capture of Kinfouns.
Lady Helen sits by me on one side, Isabella on the other. Isabella
smiles on me, like the spirit of happiness. Helen's look is not less
gracious, for I tell her I am writing to Sir William Wallace. She
smiles, hut it is with such a smile as that with which a saint would
relinquish to Heaven the dearest object of its love. 'Helen,' said I,
'what shall I say from you to our friend?' 'That I pray for him.'
'That you think of him?' 'That I pray for him,' repeated she, more
emphatically; 'that is the way I always think of my preserver.' Her
manner checked me, my dear Wallace, but I would give worlds that you
could bring your heart to make this sweet vestal smile as I do her
sister!"
Lady Mar crushed the registered wish in her hand; and though she was
never able to decipher a word or more of Bruce's numerous letters (many
of which, could she have read them, contained complaints of that
silence she had so cruelly occasioned), she took and destroyed them all.
She had ever shunned the penetrating eyes of young Lord Bothwell, and
to have him on the spot when she should discover herself to Wallace,
she thought would only invite discomfiture.
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