eater number and better discipline of their foe. It
mattered not that the fading light of day had given place to the darker
shades of night, but dimly illumined by the rising moon--they struggled
on, knowing as if by instinct friend from foe. And fearful was it to
watch the mighty struggles from figures gleaming as gigantic shadows in
the darkness; now and then came a deep smothered cry or bursting groan,
wrung from the throes of death, or the wild, piercing scream from a
slaughtered horse, but the tongues of life were silent; the clang of
armor, the clash of steel, the heavy fall of man and horse, indeed came
fitfully and fearfully on the night breeze, and even as the blue
spectral flash of summer lightning did the bright swords rise and fall
in the thick gloom.

"Back, back, dishonored knight! back, recreant traitor!" shouted James
of Douglas; and his voice was heard above the roar of battle, and those
near him saw him at the same instant spring from his charger, thrust
back Pembroke and other knights who were thronging round him, and with
unrivalled skill and swiftness aid a tall and well-known form to rise
and spring on the horse he held for him. "Thinkest thou the sacred
person of the King of Scotland is for such as thee? back, I say!" And he
did force him, armed and on horseback as he was, many paces back, and
Robert Bruce again galloped over the field, bareheaded indeed, for his
helmet had fallen off in the strife, urging, inciting, leading on yet
again to the charge. And it was in truth as if a superhuman strength and
presence had been granted the patriot king that night, for there were
veteran warriors there, alike English and Scotch, who paused even in the
work of strife to gaze and tremble.

Again was he unhorsed, crushed by numbers--one moment more and he had
fallen into the hands of his foes, and Scotland had lain a slave forever
at the feet of England; but again was relief at hand, and the young Earl
of Mar, dashing his horse between the prostrate monarch and his
thronging enemies, laid the foremost, who was his own countryman, dead
on the field, and remained fighting alone; his single arm dealing deadly
blows on every side at the same moment until Robert had regained his
feet, and, though wounded and well-nigh exhausted, turned in fury to the
rescue of his preserver. It was too late; in an agony of spirit no pen
can describe, he beheld his faithful and gallant nephew overpowered by
numbers and led off a