“Yes, my liege, I have seen her,” said Sir John, his lip quivering, and his tongue faltering.
“Where?”
“At Amisfield.”
“On what occasion?”
“She came to me for the release of Wallace Maxwell.”
“And you refused her, except upon conditions which were an insult to her, and a disgrace to yourself. Speak; is it not so?”
“To my shame, my sovereign, I confess my guilt; but I am willing to make all the reparation in my power; and I leave it to be named by your Majesty.”
“You deserve to be hanged, Sir John; but when I look on that face, I acknowledge your temptation, and it pleads a mitigation of punishment. You know that Mary loves and is beloved by Wallace Maxwell, whom you have already ransomed; you shall give him a farm of not less than fifty acres of good land, rent-free, during his life, or that of the woman he marries; and, further, you shall stock it with cattle, and every article necessary, with a comfortable dwelling;—all this you shall perform within three months from this date. If you think these conditions hard, I give you the alternative of swinging from that tree before sunset. Take your choice.”
“My sovereign, I submit to the conditions, and promise that I shall do my best to make the couple happy.”
Wallace was now called in, when Mary clasped him in her arms, both falling on their knees before their sovereign. He raised them up and said, “I have tried both your loves, and found them faithful. Your Mary is all that you believed her, and brings you a dowry which she will explain. I shall see your hands united before I leave Annandale, and preside at the feast. Let your care of the widow be a remuneration for what she has done for both, and I trust all of you will long remember the Gudeman of Ballengeich’s visit to Annandale.”—Edinburgh Literary Gazette.