"The prayer of meek goodness, we know, 'availeth much.' Continue, then, to offer up that incense for me," added he, "and I shall march forth to-morrow with redoubled strength; for I shall think, holy maid, that I have yet a Marion to pray for me on earth as well as one in heaven."
Lady Helen's heart beat at these words, but it was with no unhallowed emotion. She withdrew her hands from her face and, clasping them, looked up. "Marion will indeed echo all my prayers, and He who reads my heart will, I trust, grant them. They are for your life, Sir William Wallace," added she, turning to him with agitation, "for it is menaced."
"I will inquire by whom," answered he, "when I have first paid my duty at this altar for guarding it so long. And dare I, daughter of goodness, to ask you to unite the voice of your daughter of goodness, to ask you to unite the voice of your gentle spirit with the secret one of mine? I would beseech Heaven for pardon on my own transgressions; I would ask of its mercy to establish the liberty of Scotland. Pray with me, Lady Helen, and the invocations our souls utter will meet the promise of Him who said: 'Where two or three are joined together in prayer, there am I in the midst of them.'"
Helen looked on him with a holy smile; and pressing the crucifix which she held to her lips, bowed her head on it in mute assent. Wallace threw himself prostrate on the steps of the altar; and the fervor of his sighs alone breathed to his companion the deep devotion of his soul. How the time passed he knew not, so was he absorbed in the communion which his spirit held in heaven with the most gracious of beings. But the bell of the palace striking the matin hour, reminded him he was yet on earth; and looking up his eyes met those of Helen. His devotional rosary hung on his arm; he kissed it. "Wear this, holy maid," said he, "in remembrance of this hour!" She bowed her fair neck, and he put the consecrated chain over it. "Let it bear witness to a friendship," added he, clasping her hands in his, "which will be cemented by eternal ties in heaven."
Helen bent her face upon his hands; he felt the sacred tears of so pure a compact upon them; and while he looked up, as if he thought the spirit of his Marion hovered near, to bless a communion so remote from all infringement of the sentiment he had dedicated forever to her, Helen raised her head—and, with a terrible shriek, throwing her arms around the body of Wallace, he, that moment, felt an assassin's steel in his back, and she fell senseless on his breast. He started on his feet; a dagger fell from his wound to the ground, but the hand which had struck the blow he could nowhere see. To search further was then impossible, for Helen lay on his bosom like dead. Not doubting that she had seen his assailant, and fainted from alarm, he was laying her on the steps of the altar, that he might bring some water from the basin of the chapel to recover her, when he saw that her arm was not only stained with his blood, but streaming with her own. The dagger had gashed it in reaching him.
"Execrable villain!" cried he, turning cold at the sight, and instantly comprehending that it was to defend him she had thrown her arms around him, he exclaimed, in a voice of agony, "Are two of the most matchless women the earth ever saw to die for me!" Trembling with alarm, and with renewed grief—for the terrible scene of Ellerslie was now brought in all its horrors before him—he tore off her veil to staunch the blood; but the cut was too wide for his surgery; and, losing every other consideration in fears for her life, he again took her in his arms, and bore her out of the chapel. He hastened through the dark passage, and almost flying along the lighted galleries, entered the hall. The noisy fright of the servants, as he broke through their ranks at the door, alarmed the revelers; and turning round, what was their astonishment to behold the regent, pale and streaming with blood, bearing in his arms a lady apparently lifeless, and covered with the same dreadful hue!
Mar instantly recognized his daughter, and rushed toward her with a cry of horror. Wallace sunk, with his breathless load, upon the nearest bench; and, while her head rested on his bosom, ordered surgery to be brought. Lady Mar gazed on the spectacle with a benumbed dismay. None present durst ask a question, till a priest drawing near, unwrapped the arm of Helen, and discovered its deep wound.
"Who has done this?" cried her father, to Wallace, with all the anguish of a parent in his countenance.
"I know not," replied he; "but I believe, some villain who aimed at my life."
"Where is Lord de Valence?" exclaimed Mar, suddenly recollecting his menaces against Wallace.