"Who
is the saint whose holy charity would anticipate the obsequies of a man
who yet may be destined to a long pilgrimage?"
"Who I am," resumed the bard, "will be sthown to thee when thou hast
passed yon starry firmament. But the galaxy streams with blood; the
bugle of death is alone heard; and thy lacerated breast heaves in vain
against the hoofs of opposing squadrons. They charge--Scotland falls!
Look not on me, champion of thy country! Sold by thine
enemies--betrayed by thy friends! It was not the seer of St. Anton who
gave thee these wounds--that heart's blood was not drawn by me: a
woman's hand in mail, ten thousand armed warriors strike the mortal
steel--he sinks, he falls! Red is the blood of Eske! Thy vital stream
hath dyed it. Fly, bravest of the brave, and live! Stay, and perish!"
With a shriek of horror, and throwing his aged arms extended toward
the heavens, while his gray beard mingled in the rising blast, the seer
rushed from sight. Wallace saw the misty rocks alone, and was left in
awful solitude.
For a few minutes he stood in profound silence. His very soul seemed
deprived of power to answer so terrible a denunciation, with even a
questioning thought.
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