He dreads the
scepter of honor: Wallace must fall, that vice and her votaries may
reign in Scotland. A thousand brave Scots lie under these sods, and a
thousand yet survive who may share their graves; but they never will
relinquish their invincible leader into the hands of traitors!"
The clamors of the citadel of Stirling now resounded through the tent
of Wallace. Invectives, accusations, threatenings, reproaches, and
revilings, joined in one turbulent uproar. Again swords were drawn;
and Wallace, in attempting to beat down the weapons of Soulis and
Buchan, aimed at Bothwell's heart, must have received the point of
Soulis' in his own body, had he not grasped the blade, and wrenching it
out of the chief's hand, broke it into shivers: "Such be the fate of
every sword which Scot draws against Scot!" cried he. "Put up your
weapons, my friends. The arm of Wallace is not shrunk, that he could
not defend himself, did he think that violence were necessary. Hear my
determination, once and forever!" added he. "I acknowledge no
authority in Scotland but the laws. The present regent and his
abthanes outrage them in every ordinance, and I should indeed be a
traitor to my country did I submit to such men's behests.
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