I am all my country's, or I am nothing." "Nothing!" reiterated Murray, laying his hand upon that of Wallace, as it rested upon the hilt of the sword on which he leaned.

"Is the friend of mankind, the champion of Scotland, the beloved of a thousand valuable hearts, nothing?
Nay, art thou not the agent of Heaven, to be the scourge of a tyrant?
Art thou not the deliverer of thy country ?" Wallace turned his bright eye upon Murray with an expression of mingled feelings.

"May I be all this, my friend, and Wallace must yet be happy! But speak not to me of love and woman; tell me not of those endearing qualities I have prized too tenderly, and which are now buried to me forever beneath the ashes of Ellerslie." "Not under the ashes of Ellerslie," cried Murray, "sleep the remains of your lovely wife." Wallace's penetrating eye turned quick upon him.
Murray continued: "My cousin's pitying soul stretched itself toward them; by her directions they were brought from your oratory in the rock, and deposited, with all holy rites, in the cemetery at Bothwell." The glow that now animated the before chilled heart of Wallace, overspread his face.

His eyes spoke volumes of gratitude, his lips moved, but his feelings were too big for utterance, and, fervently pressing the hand of Murray, to conceal emotions ready to shake his manhood, he turned away, and walked toward the cliff.
When all the slain were lowered to their last beds, a young priest, who came in the company of Scrymgeour, gave the funeral benediction both to the departed in the waves, and those whom the shore had received.

The rites over, Murray again drew near to Wallace and delivered his aunt's message.