Now let the great patriot hero whom Scotland delights to honour, even after the lapse of six centuries, tread the scene. He is William Wallace of Elderslie, a young knight of some twenty-seven years, massive of build and mighty of thew and sinew, fit foe for Edward himself. His face is long and fair, his hair light-brown, his eye clear and piercing, his expression solemn and sad. A foul outrage has driven him to the hills, where he is nursing his wrath and biding his time. An English officer has encountered him and his nine followers in the streets of Lanark and has taunted him with insulting words. His long sword has leaped from its scabbard and the insulter has been laid low. The alarm has been sounded, and armed men have rushed to the spot; but Wallace has fought his way through them, and has found a refuge in the woods, where the news of a dastardly crime speedily reaches him. His young and dearly-loved wife has been seized and slain by his cruel foes. Terrible indeed is his agony of grief, but tears avail nothing. “Cease,” he cries to his followers, “cease this bootless pain. We cannot bring her back to life, but no man shall ever see me rest till I have avenged the wanton slaughter of her so blithe and bright.” That very night he slays the slayer of his love, and day after day he swoops down on his foes like a hawk on its quarry. The fame of his daring deeds spreads abroad, and patriots seek him in his retreat and array themselves under his banner. Now it is an English convoy that is despoiled, now an English foraging party that is cut up. Every day brings its exploit, and throughout the south-western counties the English are everywhere harassed and harried by a foe who comes and goes mysteriously, and leaves no token but slaughtered men and burning roof-trees. Now see him, no longer the lurking outlaw, but the leader of an army, marching proudly at the head of his men, and fearlessly displaying the broad banner of Scotland. The best and bravest of the land are with him. Not a fortress north of the Tay save Dundee is in English hands. Only a year has sped since Edward left Scotland, in the vain belief that the northern kingdom is a cowed and tamed land. Now he perceives that the work must be done all over again. He gathers an army of fifty thousand men, and speeds northward for Stirling, where high on its rock sits the ancient fortress, the key to the centre of Scotland. Wallace hears of the English advance, and marches to Stirling with all speed. On and about the Abbey Craig, where his noble memorial tower now stands, he encamps, and awaits the coming of his foes.