"No, no," replied he; "the same hand that gave me this, inflicted a worse on my general at Dumbarton: he kept the field then; and shall I retire now, and disgrace my example?
No, my brother; you would not have me so disprove my kindred!" "Do as you will," answered Wallace, with a grateful smile; "so that you preserve a life that must never again be risked to save mine.

While it is necessary for me to live, my Almighty Captain will shield me; but when his word goes forth, that I shall be recalled, it will not be in the power of friendship, nor of hosts, to turn the steel from my breast.

Therefore, dearest Edwin, thrown not yourself away, in defending what is in the hands of Heaven--to be lent, or to be withdrawn at will." Edwin bowed his modest head; and having suffered a balsam to be poured into his wound, braced his brigandine over his breast; and was again at the side of his friend, just as he had joined Kirkpatrick before the citadel.

The gates were firmly closed, and the dismayed Cressingham was panting behind its walls, as Wallace commanded the parley to be sounded.

Afraid of trusting himself within arrow-shot of an enemy who he believed conquered by witchcraft, the terrified governor sent his lieutenant up on the walls to answer the summons.
The herald of the Scots demanded the immediate surrender of the place.
Cressingham was at that instant informed by a messenger, who had arrived too late the preceding night to be allowed to disturb his slumbers, that De Warenne was approaching with an immense army.
Inflated with new confidence, he mounted the wall himself, and in haughty language, returned for answer, "That he would fall under the towers of the citadel before he would surrender to a Scottish rebel.
And as an example of the fate which such a delinquent merits," continued he, "I will change the milder sentence passed on Lord Mar, and immediately hang him, and all his family, on these ramparts, in sight of your insurgent army." "Then," cried the herald, "thus says Sir William Wallace--if even one hair on the heads of the Earl of Mar and his family falls with violence to the ground, every Southron soul who has this day surrendered to the Scottish arms shall lose his head by the ax." "We are used to the blood of traitors," cried Cressingham, "and mind not its scent.