Wallace paused,
and stopping some distance from this extraordinary apparition, looked
on it in silence. The strings of the harp seemed softly touched, but
it was only the sighing of a transitory breeze passing over them. The
vibration ceased, but, in the next moment the hand of the master indeed
struck the chords, and with so full and melancholy a sound that Wallace
for a few minutes was riveted to the ground; then moving forward with a
breathless caution, not to disturb the nocturnal bard, he gently
approached. He was, however, descried! The venerable figure clasped
his hands, and in a voice of mournful solemnity exclaimed:
"Art thou come, doomed of Heaven, to hear thy sad coronach?" Wallace
started at this salutation. The bard, with the same emotion,
continued; "No choral hymns hallow thy bleeding corpse--wolves howl thy
requiem--eagles scream over thy desolate grave! Fly, chieftain, fly!"
"What, venerable father of the harp," cried Wallace, interrupting the
awful pause, "thus addresses one whom he must mistake for some other
warrior?"
"Can the spirit of inspiration mistake its object?" demanded the bard.
"Can he whose eyes have been opened be blind to Sir William Wallace--to
the blood which clogs his mounting footsteps?"
"And what or who am I to understand art thou?" replied Wallace.
Pages:
1074
1075
1076
1077
1078
1079
1080
1081
1082
1083
1084
1085
1086
1087
1088
1089
1090
1091
1092
1093
1094
1095
1096
1097
1098