"We are now near the end of this night's work!" cried he. "Let us press forward to give freedom to the Earl of Mar!"
"Liberty and Lord Mar!" cried Kirkpatrick, rushing onward. He was immediately followed by his own men, but not quickly enough for his daring. The guard in the tower, hearing the outcry, issued from the flanking gates, and, surrounding him, took him prisoner.
"If there be might in your arms," roared he, with the voice of a lion, "men of Loch Dione, rescue your leader!"
They hurried forward, with yells of defiance; but the strength of the garrison, awakened by the flying wretches from the defeat, turned out all its power, and, with De Valence at their head, poured on Kirkpatrick's men, and would have overpowered them had not Wallace and his sixty heroes, with desperate determination, cut a passage to them through the closing ranks.
Pikes struck against corslets, swords rang on helmets, and the ponderous battle-ax, falling with the weight of fate, cleft the uplifted target in twain. Blood spouted on every side, and the dripping hands of Kirkpatrick, as Wallace tore him from the enemy, proclaimed that he had bathed his vengeance in the stream. On being released, he shook his ensanguined arms, and burst into a horrid laugh. "The work speeds! Now through the heart of the governor!"
Even while he spoke Wallace lost him again from his side; and again, by the shouts of the Southrons, who cried, "No quarter for the rebel!" he learned he must be retaken. That merciless cry was the death-bell of their own doom. It directed Wallace to the spot, and throwing himself and his brethren of Lanark into the midst of the band which held the prisoner, Kirkpatrick was again rescued. But thousands seemed now surrounding the chief himself. To do this generous deed, he had advanced further than he ought, and himself and his brave followers must have been slain had he not recoiled, and covering their rear with the great tower, all who had the hardihood to approach fell under the weight of the Scottish claymore.
Scrymgeour, at the head of the Loch Dione men, in vain attempted to reach this contending party; and fearful of losing the royal standard, he was turning to make a valiant retreat, when Murray and Edwin (having disengaged their followers from the precipices of the beacon rock) rushed into the fray, striking their shields, and uttering the inspiring slogan of "Wallace and freedom!" It was re-echoed by every Scot; those that were flying returned; they who sustained the conflict hailed the cry with braces sinews; and the terrible thunder of the word, pealing from rank to rank, struck a terror into De Valence's men, which made them pause. The extinction of the beacon made them still more aghast.
On that short moment turned the crisis of their fate. Wallace cut his way forward through the dismayed Southrons, who, bearing the reiterated shouts of the fresh reinforcements, knew not whether its strength might not be thousands instead of hundreds, and, panic-stricken, they became an easy prey to their enemies. Surrounded, mixed with their assailants, they knew not friends from foes, and each individual being bent on flight, they indiscriminately cut to right and left, wounding as many of their own men as of the Scots, and finally, after slaughtering half their companions, some few escaped through the small posterns of the garrison, leaving the inner ballia entirely in possession of the foe.
The whole of the field being cleared, Wallace ordered the tower to be forced. A strong guard was still within, and, as the assailants drew near, every means was used to render their assaults abortive. As the Scots pressed to the main entrance, stones and heavy metals were thrown upon their heads; but, not in the least intimidated, they stood beneath the iron shower, till Wallace ordered them to drive a large felled tree, which lay on the ground, against the hinges of the door. It burst open, and the whole party rushed into the hall.
A short, sanguinary, but decisive conflict took place. The hauberk and plaid of Wallace were dyed from head to foot; his own brave blood, and the ferocious stream from his enemies, mingled in one horrid hue upon his garments.