"Ay, but let us see," returned the Earl of March, who accompanied him, "whether it be not Caesar's coyness; he thrice refused the purple, and yet he died Emperor of the Romans!" "He that offers me a crown," returned Buchan, "shall never catch me playing the coquette with its charms. I warrant you, I would embrace the lovely mischief in the first presentation." A shout rent the air. "What is that?" cried he, interrupting himself. "He has followed your advice," answered March, with a satirical smile, "it is the preliminary trumpet to long live King William the Great!" Lord Buchan spurred forward to Scrymgeour, whom he knew, and inquired, "where the new king was to be crowned? We have not yet to thank him for the possession of Scone!" "True," cried Sir Alexander, comprehending the sarcasm; "but did Sir William Wallace accept the prayers of Scotland, neither Scone nor any other spot in the kingdom would refuse the place of his coronation." "Not accept them!" replied Buchan; "then why the shout? Do the changelings rejoice in being refused?" "When we cannot gain the altitude of our desires," returned the knight, "it is yet subject for thankfulness when we reach a step toward it. Sir William Wallace has consented to be considered as the protector of the kingdom; to hold it for the rightful sovereign, under the name of regent." "Ay," cried March, "he has only taken a mistress instead of a wife; and, trust me, when once he has got her into his arms, it will not be all the gray beards in Scotland that can wrest her thence again. I marvel to see how men can be cajoled and call the visor virtue." Scrymgeour had not waited for this reply of the insolent earl, and Buchan answered him: "I care not," said he; "whoever keeps my castle over my head, and my cellars full, is welcome to reign over John of Buchan. So onward, my gallant Cospatrick, to make our bow to royalty in masquerade." When these scorners approached, they found Wallace standing uncovered in the midst of his happy nobles. There was not a man present to whom he had not given proofs of his divine commission; each individual was snatched from a state of oppression and disgrace, and placed in security and honor. With overflowing gratitude, they all thronged around him; and the young, the isolated Wallace, found a nation waiting on his nod; the hearts of half a million of people offered to his hand to turn and wind them as he pleased. No crown sat on his brows; but the bright halo of true glory beamed from his godlike countenance. It even checked the arrogant smiles with which the haughty March and the voluptuous Buchan came forward to mock him with their homage.