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They fell on the deck locked in each other's arms; but the Frenchman fell undermost, and Wallace, fixing his grasp upon his gorget, compressed it so closely, notwithstanding it was made of the finest steel, that the blood gushed from his eyes, nose, and mouth, and he was only able to ask for quarter by signs.

His men threw down their weapons, and begged for mercy, when they saw their leader thus severely handled. The victor granted them all their lives, but took possession of their vessel and detained them prisoners.

When he came in sight of the French harbor, Wallace alarmed the place by displaying the Rover's colors, as if De Longueville were coming to pillage the town. The bells were rung, horns were blown, and the citizens were hurrying to arms, when the scene changed. The Scottish Lion on his shield of gold was raised above the piratical flag, which announced that the champion of Scotland was approaching, like a falcon with his prey in his clutch.

He landed with his prisoner, and carried him to the court of France, where, at Wallace's request, the robberies which the pirate had committed were forgiven, and the king even conferred the honor of knighthood on Sir Thomas de Longueville, and offered to take him into his service. But the Rover had contracted such a friendship for his generous victor, that he insisted on uniting his fortunes with those of Wallace, and fought by his side in many a bloody battle, where the prowess of Sir Thomas de Longueville was remarked as inferior to that of none, save of his heroic conqueror.

Sir WALTER Scott.

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“They fell on the deck locked in each other's arms."

(See page 208.)

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Biography.-Sir Walter Scott was born in Edinburgh, Scotland, in 1771, and died at Abbotsford in 1832.

His first publication, the ballads Lenore and “The Wild Huntsman," appeared in 1796.

We have no need to mention all his works by name,-“The Waverly Novels,” “The Lay of the Last Minstrel," Marmion," and “The Lady of the Lake,” are among those most widely read.

Notes.-Sir William Wallace, the champion of Scottish liberty, was executed, by order of Edward I., in London in 1305.

The Norse sea-kings were famous navigators from the Norwegian Peninsula.

Gör' ġet, a piece of armor for defending the throat.


sěx'tón, an under officer of a

church. thread'ing, walking. vow, a solemn promise. sus pěnd'ed, hung.

túr'rets, topmost parts of a build

ing. kněll, stroke of a bell rung at a “Bessie,” calmly spoke the sexton, every word pierced her young

funeral; death signal. il lūme', make light.

Slowly England's sun was setting o'er the hill-tops far away, Filling all the land with beauty at the close of one sad day; And the last rays kissed the forehead of a man and maiden fair,He with footsteps slow and weary, she with sunny, floating hair: He with bowed head, sad and thoughtful, she with lips all cold

and white, Struggling to keep back the murmur, – “Curfew N must not ring


“Sexton,” Bessie's white lips faltered, pointing to the prison old, With its turrets tall and gloomy, with its walls dark, damp,

and cold, I've a lover in that prison, doomed this very night to die, At the ringing of the curfew-and no earthly help is nigh: Cromwell N will not come till sunset," and her lips grew strangely

white As she breathed the husky whisper,--Curfew must not ring


heart Like the piercing of an arrow, like a deadly, poisoned dart, “Long, long years I've rung the curfew from that gloomy,

shadowed tower; Every evening, just at sunset, it has told the twilight hour; I have done my duty ever, tried to do it just and right, Now I'm old I still must do it,-Curfew must be rung to-night."

Wild her eyes and pale her features, stern and white her

thoughtful brow, And within her secret bosom Bessie made a solemn vow. She had listened while the judges read without a tear or sigh, At the ringing of the curfew, Basiln Underwood must die." And her breath came fast and faster, and her eyes grew large

and brightIn an undertone she murmured, -“Curfew must not ring to


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She with quick steps bounded forward, sprung within the old

church door, Left the old man threading slowly paths so oft he'd trod be

fore; Not one moment paused the maiden, but with eye and cheek

aglow, Mounted up the gloomy tower, where the bell swung to and

fro; And she climbed the dusty ladder on which fell no ray of light, Up and up-her white lips saying, “Curfew must not ring


She has reached the topmost ladder, o'er her hangs the great,

dark bell; Awful is the gloom beneath her, like a pathway down to hell. Lo, the ponderous tongue is swinging, 'tis the hour of curfew

now, And the sight has chilled her bosom, stopped her breath, and

paled her brow,

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