Wallace was alarmed at her vehemence. "Lady Mar," returned he, "I am incapable of saying anything to you that is inimical to your duty to the best of men. I will even forget this distressing conversation, and continue through life to revere, equal with himself, the wife of my friend." "And I am to be stabbed with this?" she replied, in a voice of indignant anguish. "You are to be healed with it, Lady Mar," returned he, "for it is not a man like the rest of his sex that now addresses you, but a being whose heart is petrified to marble. I could feel no throb of yours; I should be insensible to all your charms, were I even vile enough to see no evil in trampling upon your husband's rights. Yes, were virtue lost to me, still memory would speak, still would she urge, that the chaste and last kiss, imprinted by my wife on these lips, should live there in unblemished sanctity, till I again meet her angel embraces in the world to come!" The countess, awed by his solemnity, but not put from her suit, exclaimed: "What she was, I would be to thee--thy consoler, thine adorer. Time may set me free. Oh! till then, only give me leave to love thee, and I shall be happy!" "You dishonor yourself, lady," returned he, "by these petitions, and for what? You plunge your soul in guilty wishes--you sacrifice your peace, and your self-esteem, to a phantom; for I repeat, I am dead to woman; and the voice of love sounds like the funeral knell of her who will never breathe it to me again." He arose as he spoke, and the countess, pierced to the heart, and almost despairing of now retaining any part in its esteem, was devising what next to say, when Murray came into the room. Wallace instantly observed that his countenance was troubled. "What has happened?" inquired he. "A messenger from the mainland, with bad news from Ayr." "Of private or public import?" asked Wallace. "Of both. There has been a horrid massacre, in which the heads of many noble families have fallen." As he spoke, the paleness of his countenance revealed to his friend that part of the information he had found himself unable to communicate. "I comprehend my loss," cried Wallace; "Sir Ronald Crawford is sacrificed! Bring the messenger in." Murray withdrew; and Wallace, seating himself, remained with a fixed and stern countenance, gazing on the ground. Lady Mar durst not breathe for fear of disturbing the horrid stillness which seemed to lock up his grief and indignation. Lord Andrew re-entered with a stranger, Wallace rose to meet him, and seeing Lady mar-"Countess," said he, "these bloody recitals are not for your ears;" and waving her to withdraw, she left the room. "This gallant stranger," said Murray, "is Sir John Graham. He has just left that new theater of Southron perfidy."