While he sat on his proud war-horse, in front of the
great gates of the citadel, now thrown wide asunder to admit its
rightful sovereign, his noble prisoners came forward. They bent their
knees before him; and delivering their swords, received in return, his
gracious assurance of mercy. At this moment all Scottish hearts and
wishes seemed riveted on their youthful monarch. Dismounting from his
steed, he raised his helmet from his head, as the souls of his enemies,
he raised his helmet from his head, as the Bishop of Dunkeld, followed
by all the ecclesiastics in the town, came forward to wait upon the
triumph of their king.
The beautiful anthem of the virgins of Israel on the conquests of
David, was chanted forth by the nuns who in this heaven-hallowed hour,
like the spirits of the blest, revisited the world to give the chosen
of their land, "All hail."
The words, the scene, smote the heart of Bothwell; he turned aside and
wept. Where were now the buoyant feelings with which he had followed
the similar triumph of Wallace into these gates? "Buried, thou
martyred hero, in thy bloody grave!" New men and new services seemed
to have worn out remembrance of the past; but in the memories of even
this joyous crowd, Wallace lived, though like a bright light which had
passed through their path, and was gone never more to return.
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