ed, closely followed by its
grim attendant, disease, all his efforts to collect and inspire his
countrymen with his own spirit, his own hope, were utterly and entirely
fruitless, for his enemies appeared to increase around him, the autumn
found him as far, if not further, from the successful termination of his
desires than he had been at first.

All Scotland lay at the feet of his foe. John of Lorn, maternally
related to the slain Red Comyn, had collected his forces to the number
of a thousand, and effectually blockaded his progress through the
district of Breadalbane, to which he had retreated from a superior body
of English, driving him to a narrow pass in the mountains, where the
Bruce's cavalry had no power to be of service; and had it not been for
the king's extraordinary exertions in guarding the rear, and there
checking the desperate fury of the assailants, and interrupting their
headlong pursuit of the fugitives, by a strength, activity, and
prudence, that in these days would seem incredible, the patriots must
have been cut off to a man. Here it was that the family of Lorn obtained
possession of that brooch of Bruce, which even to this day is preserved
as a relic, and lauded as a triumph, proving how nearly their redoubted
enemy had fallen into their hands. Similar struggles had marked his
progress through the mountains ever since the defeat of Methven; but
vain was every effort of his foes to obtain possession of his person,
destroy his energy, and thus frustrate his purpose. Perth, Inverness,
Argyle, and Aberdeen had alternately been the scene of his wanderings.
The middle of autumn found him with about a hundred followers, amongst
whom were the Countess of Buchan and her son, amid the mountains which
divide Kincardine from the southwest boundary of Aberdeen. The remainder
of his officers and men, divided into small bands, each with some of
their female companions under their especial charge, were scattered over
the different districts, as better adapted to concealment and rest.

It was that part of the year when day gives place to night so suddenly,
that the sober calm of twilight even appears denied to us. The streams
rushed by, turbid and swollen from the heavy autumnal rains. A rude wind
had robbed most of the trees of their foliage; the sere and withered
leaves, indeed, yet remained on the boughs, beautiful even in, their
decay, but the slightest breath would carry them away from their
resting-places, an