en thousand Scots
were slain. True, her gallant general was no longer extant, though
this was scarcely astounding when one considered the fact that he had
voluntarily entered the melee quite unarmed. A touch of age, perhaps;
Hastings was always an eccentric man: in any event, as epilogue, this
Neville congratulated the Queen that--by blind luck, he was forced to
concede,--her worthy secretary had made a prisoner of the Scottish
King. Doubtless, Master Copeland was an estimable scribe, and yet--Ah,
yes, Lord Neville quite followed her Majesty--beyond doubt, the
wardage of a king was an honor not lightly to be conferred. Oh, yes,
he understood; her Majesty desired that the office should be given
some person of rank. And pardie! her Majesty was in the right. Eh?
said the Earl of Neville.

Intently gazing into the man's shallow eyes, Philippa assented. Master
Copeland had acted unwarrantably in riding off with his captive. Let
him be sought at once. She dictated to Neville's secretary a letter,
which informed John Copeland that he had done what was not agreeable
in purloining her prisoner. Let him without delay deliver the King to
her good friend the Earl of Neville.

To Neville this was satisfactory, since he intended that once in his
possession David Bruce should escape forthwith. The letter, I repeat,
suited this smirking gentleman in its tiniest syllable, and the single
difficulty was to convey it to John Copeland, for as to his
whereabouts neither Neville nor any one else had the least notion.

This was immaterial, however, for they narrate that next day a letter
signed with John Copeland's name was found pinned to the front of
Neville's tent. I cite a passage therefrom: "I will not give up my
royal prisoner to a woman or a child, but only to my own lord, Sire
Edward, for to him I have sworn allegiance, and not to any woman. Yet
you may tell the Queen she may depend on my taking excellent care of
King David. I have poulticed his nose, as she directed."

Here was a nonplus, not without its comical side. Two great realms had
met in battle, and the king of one of them had vanished like a
soap-bubble. Philippa was in a rage,--you could see that both by her
demeanor and by the indignant letters she dictated; true, none of
these letters could be delivered, since they were all addressed to
John Copeland. Meanwhile, Scotland was in despair, whereas the traitor
English barons were in a frenzy, because they did not know what