t sound of the trumpet, had
started from their slumbers, and falling in a semicircle round him and
Sir Christopher, listened with intense eagerness to the herald's words.
"Ye have heard. Speak, then--your answer; yours shall be ours."

"Death! death! death!" was the universally reiterated shout. "We will
struggle to the death. Our king and country shall not say we deserted
them because we feared to die; or surrendered on terms of shame as
these! No; let the foe come on! we will die, if we may not live, still
patriots of Scotland! King Robert will avenge us! God save the Bruce!"

Again, and yet again they bade God bless him; and startlingly and
thrillingly was the united voice of that desperate, devoted band borne
on the wings of night to the very furthest tents of their foes. Calmly
Sir Nigel turned again to the herald.

"Thou hast Scotland's answer," he said; "'tis in such men as these her
glorious spirit lives! they will fall not unavenged. Commend us to your
masters; we await them with the dawn," and, turning on his heel, he
reassumed the posture of thought as if he had never been aroused.

The dawn uprose, the attack was renewed with increased vigor, and
defended with the same calm, determined spirit which had been ever
shown; the patriots fell where they fought, leaving fearful traces of
their desperate courage in the numbers of English that surrounded each.
It was now before the principal entrance to the keep they made their
final stand, and horrible was the loss of life, fierce and deadly the
strife, ere that entrance was forced, and the shrieks of women and
children within proclaimed the triumph of the foe. Then came a shout,
loud ringing, joyous, echoed and re-echoed by the blast of the trumpets
both within and without, and the proud banner of Scotland was hurled
contemptuously to the earth, and the flag of England floated in its
place. Many a dying eye, unclosed by those sudden sounds, looked on that
emblem of defeat and moved not in life again; others sprung up to their
feet with wild shrieks of defiance, and fell back, powerless, in death.

Sir Christopher Seaton, whose exhausted frame could barely sustain the
weight of his armor, had been taken in the first charge, fighting
bravely, but falling from exhaustion to the earth. And where was
Nigel?--hemmed in on all sides, yet seemingly unwounded, unconquered
still, his face indeed was deadly pale, and there were moments when his
strokes flagged as from an