She had no sooner returned to the scene of festivity than she repented of having allowed what she deemed an idle alarm of overstrained delicacy to drive her from the lake. She would have hastened back, had not two or three aged female peasants almost instantly engaged her, in spite of her struggles for extrication, to listen to long stories respecting her lord's youth. She remained thus an unwilling auditor, and by the side of the dancers for nearly an hour, before Wallace reappeared. But then she sprung toward him as if a spell were broken. "Where, truant, have you been?" "In a beautiful solitude," returned he, "amongst a luxuriant grove of willows." "Ah!" cried she, "it is called Glenshealeach, and a sad scene was acted there! About ten years ago, a lady of this island drowned herself in the lake they hang over, because the man she loved despised her." "Unhappy woman!" observed Wallace. "Then you would have pitied her?" rejoined Lady Mar. "He cannot be a man that would not pity a woman under such circumstances." "Then you would not have consigned her to such a fate?" Wallace was startled by the peculiar tone in which this simple question was asked. It recalled the action in the citadel, and, unconsciously turning a penetrating look on her, his eyes met hers. He need not have heard further to have learned more. She hastily looked down, and colored; and he, wishing to misunderstand a language so disgraceful to herself, so dishonoring to her husband, gave some trifling answer; then making a slight observation about the earl, he advanced to him. Lord Mar was become tired with so gala a scene, and, taking the arm of Wallace, they returned together into the house. Edwin soon followed with Murray, gladly arriving in time enough to see their little pinnacle draw up under the castle and throw out her moorings. The countess, too, descried its streamers, and hastening into the room where she knew the chiefs were yet assembled, though the wearied earl had retired to repose, inquired the reason of that boat having drawn so near the castle. "That it may take us from it, fair aunt," replied Murray. The countess fixed her eyes with an unequivocal expression upon Wallace. "My gratitude is ever due to your kindness, noble lady," said he, still wishing to be blind to what he could not perceive, "and that we may ever deserve it, we must keep the enemy from your doors." "Yes," added Murray, "and to keep a more insidious foe from our own! Edwin and I feel it rather dangerous to bask too long in these sunny bowers." "But surely your chief is not afraid," said she, casting a soft glance at Wallace. "Yet, nevertheless, I must fly," returned he, bowing to her. "That you positively shall not," added she, with a fluttering joy at her heart, thinking she was about to succeed; "you stir not this night, else I shall brand you all as a band of cowards."