But scarce had he taken the sword in his hand, ere a voice was heard, crying—
“Where is he?—where shall I find him?—does he live?—where is my mother?”
“Here, love!—here! It is my Janet!” cried Florence; but his voice seemed to fail him as he spoke.
“Come here, my bairn,” cried her mother, “and in the presence of these witnesses receive a hand that ye may be proud o’.”
As part of the garrison fled through Coldingham, Janet had heard of the surprise by which the castle had been taken, and ran towards it to gather tidings of her mother and affianced husband; for she now knew the secret which they would not reveal to her.
As she rushed forward, the crowd that surrounded Florence gave way, and, as he moved forward to meet her, it was observed that he shook or staggered as he went; but it was thought no more of; and when she fell upon his bosom, and her mother took their hands and pressed them together, the multitude burst into a shout and blessed them. He strove to speak—he muttered the word “Janet!” but his arms fell from her neck, and he sank as lifeless on the ground.
“Florence! my Florence!—he is wounded—murdered!” cried the maiden, and she flung herself beside him on the ground.
Madge and the spectators endeavoured to raise him; but his eyes were closed; and, as he gasped, they with difficulty could understand the words he strove to utter—“Water—water!”
He had, indeed, been wounded—mortally wounded—but he spoke not of it. They raised him in their arms and carried him to an apartment in the castle; but, ere they reached it, the spirit of Florence Wilson had fled.
Poor Janet clung to his lifeless body. She now cried—“Florence!—Florence!—we shall be married to-night?—yes!—yes!—I have everything ready!” And again she spoke bitter words to her mother, and said that she had murdered her Florence. The spectators lifted her from his body, and Madge stood as one on whom affliction, in the midst of her triumph, had fallen as a palsy, depriving her of speech and action.