"That accursed sealed packet," cried Murray, "has been the traitor! Some villian in Bothwell Castle must have written it. Whence else could have come the double information? And if so," added he, with tremendous emphasis, "may the blast of slavery ever pursue him and his posterity!" Helen shuddered, as the amen to this frightful malediction was echoed by the voices of Halbert and the soldier. The latter continued: "When I informed Lord Mar of these measures against Wallace, he expressed a hope that your first detachment to his assistance might, with yourself, perhaps, at its head, elude their vigilance, and join his friend. This discourse reminded him of the iron box. 'It is in that closet,' said his lordship, pointing to an opposite door; you will find it beneath the little altar, before which I pay my daily duties to the allwise Dispenser of the fates of men; else where would be my confidence now? Take it thence, and buckle it to your side." "I obeyed, and he then proceeded: 'There are two passages in this house which lead to the sanctuary. The one nearest to us is the safest for you. A staircase from the closet you have just left will lead you directly into the chapel. When there hasten to the image of the Virgin, and slip aside the marble tablet on the back of the pedestal: it will admit you to a flight of steps; descend them, and at the bottom you will find a door, that will convey you into a range of cellars. Lift up the largest flag-stone in the second, and you will be conducted through a dark vault to an iron door; draw the bolt, and remain in the cell it will open to you till the owner enters. He is the prior of St. Fillan's and a Murray. Give him this golden cross, which he well knows, as a mark you come from me; and say it is my request that he assist you to gain the sea-shore. As for the iron box, tell him to preserve it as he would his life; and never to give it up, but to myself, my children, or to Sir William Wallace, it's rightful master.'" "Alas!" cried Halbert, "that he had never been its owner! that he had never brought it to Ellerslie, to draw down misery on his head! Ill-omened trust! whatever it contains, its presence carried blood and sorrow in its train. Wherever it has been deposited war and murder have followed: I trust my dear master will never see it more!" "He may indeed never see it more!" murmured Helen, in a low voice. "Where are now my proud anticipations of freedom to Scotland? Alas, Andrew," said she, taking his hand, and weeping over it. "I have been too presumptuous; my father is a prisoner, and Sir William Wallace is lost!"