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MIDSUMMER had come and passed, and
there were hints of autumn in the bare mowing-fields, and in an occasional
chill night. The rowan trees in the dens were beginning to get gay with
their clusters of scarlet berries, the moors were taking on a pink cast with
the first opening of the heather buds, bluebells nodded by every pathside,
and the wild rosebushes, whose riotous tangles, when I
first came, were profusely adorned with bloom, had dropped
their petals and were now dotted over with green hips. So, too, the hawthorn
hedges which had been in their fulness of frosty white two months before
were now loaded with tiny haws.
It was at this time that I took my final leave of Drumtochty, intending
to proceed more or less directly to Edinburgh. But I was in no haste, and
most of the first day I spent in getting better acquainted with Perth and
its vicinity. Like all Scotch towns, Perth is very much crowded in its
poorer parts, and many curious little passageways dive in among the shops
that front on the chief streets to the huddles of dwellings in behind. These
passages are miniature tunnels, and above each narrow entering arch a name
is painted — such and such a "close." If I went on through, I soon came on a
small paved open, hedged about with old stone houses, though once in a while
a close took more public character by having in its semi-seclusion an inn,
or two or three small shops.
The people swarmed in these humbler neighborhoods, and slovenly women and
dirty, half-clad children were everywhere. Among other street scenes I
recall a tattered old woman talking with some men and smoking a stub of a
pipe. She would take out the pipe every now and then, and spit on the
pavement just like a veteran male tobacco-user.
Another picturesque remembrance of the city has to do with a park on its
borders known as the North Inch. This park was a great expanse of grass with
a few rows of young trees started on it. A number of cows were grazing
there, and a scattering of strollers and bicyclers were on the paths ; but
the main feature of the path was the clothes-poles that stretched away in
hundreds for a mile or so. This network of lines was hung full of garments,
both of white and gayer colors, and the grass was spread with quantities
more, and women with barrows were busy in the midst of this mammoth wash, so
that taken all together it suggested, as viewed from afar, some gaudy show
in full blast. Children were numerous in the neighborhood of the clothes,
many of them babies in their mother's arms or in the care of an older
sister. But there were plenty of toddlers, too, and others a trifle more
mature, who gave their energies to racing and romping, turning summersaults,
and making valorous attempts to stand on their heads.
After a noon lunch I took a tram for Scone Palace. This tram was of the
usual British type — a clumsy, two-story horse-car, plastered all over with
a crazy-patchwork of advertisements. A narrow, winding stair at the rear
gave access to the roof, and the novice finds the ascent rather awkward, and
the downlook from the top impresses him with an exaggerated idea of the
height, and makes him fear the vehicle may overturn from
topheaviness. Otherwise the roof is an agreeable place in pleasant weather.
Scone proved to be less than a half-hour's ride distant. The palace is a
gray, castlelike mansion, reposing in the retirement of an attractive park
that extends for several miles along the banks of the river Tay. There are
many acres of close-clipped lawns, and trees of all kinds, scattered and in
groves, not a few of them so lofty and deep-shadowed as to be suggestive of
tropical luxuriance.
I saw the palace, but the flag floating from the loftiest tower showed
that its noble resident was at home, and I was only allowed to gaze at a
distance. On the present palace grounds, not far from the building itself,
was once a village where now a heavy wood rises. The market cross still
stands to mark the centre of the ancient hamlet, and the people of the
region say, "Many a village has lost its cross, but only one cross has lost
its village." The burial-place of this olden-time community is just aside
from the main avenue to the palace, and that tiny plot within his grounds
the Earl does not own, nor can he shut the public from entering his park on
their way to it. This is said to be a sore trial to the dweller in the
palace, and it is related that in his younger days he spent £40,000 in a
vain attempt to get from the courts the right to close this little cemetery.
The first mention of Scone in history dates back eleven centuries, at
which time a monastery was built there. The most notable treasure that the
holy fathers of the institution had in their care was the stone on which the
kings of Scotland were inaugurated. This stone is now in Westminster Abbey,
immediately beneath the seat of the chair in which the kings of England are
crowned. It is a clumsy, oblong block of dull reddish sandstone, with a few
small imbedded pebbles. If its legendary story is to be credited, it was
originally the pillow of the patriarch Jacob at Luz, when he dreamed his
dream of the ladder to heaven, on which the angels were ascending and
descending. Later, about the time of Moses, the stone finds its way into the
hands of one Gathelus, son of an Athenian king. This Gathelus became a man
of note in Egypt, where he entered the service of Pharaoh. He rose rapidly,
and finally married that ruler's daughter Scota. Gathelus was on excellent
terms with Moses, who, shortly before the plagues were visited on the land,
gave him a friendly hint of what was coming. So impressed was Gathelus with
the undesirability of experiencing these plagues, that he took ship and
sailed away to Spain. There he acquired a wide kingdom, and there he died.
The ancient stone which Jacob had used as a pillow had always been
numbered among the dead monarch's most valuable possessions, and he
bequeathed it to his
son, who took his legacy to
Ireland, and by virtue of it established himself as chief ruler of the Isle.
He placed the stone on the famous hill of Tara, where it served as the
coronation seat of a long succession of Irish kings. Perhaps the most
remarkable thing about the stone was that it gave forth a peculiar sound
each time a king sat on it, which intimated its opinion of the new ruler,
and this judgment was deemed prophetical of the nature of the reign; but it
seems to have lost its power of thus expressing its opinion of fledgling
monarchs when it was removed from Tara.
The belief was general that wherever was found the stone the Scottish
race was certain to rule. Fergus, first king of the Scots in Scotland,
carried the stone of mystery with him when he crossed over to that country
nearly four hundred years before Christ, and deposited it in the castle of
Dunstaffnage, near Oban. In that residence of the early Scotch kings it
remained until the year 834, when it was conveyed by Kenneth
II to Scone. From then on the history of the stone
becomes more authentic. It was placed in the monastery burial-ground. When a
coronation took place the stone was covered with cloth of gold, and the king
was conducted to it with impressive pomp by the greatest nobles of the
realm. Crowds of people gazed on the solemn scene from a near hill known as
the Mount of Belief, or vulgarly as "Boot Hill," a title which has a
curious legendary explanation.
The legend is that when the barons came to be present at a coronation they
stood in boots half-filled with earth. Each had brought this soil from his
native district that he might take part in the ceremonies standing on his
"own land." At the close of the exercises the boots were taken off and
emptied, and in process of time these emptyings formed Boot Hill.
The " Stone of Destiny " was the visible sign of the Scotch monarchy, and
its loss was keenly felt when Edward I of England bore it off to Westminster
Abbey. No sooner had Scotland won its freedom, than King Robert Bruce, in
concluding the treaty of peace with the English, stipulated that the stone
should be restored. But the Londoners rose in a mob to resist the fulfilling
of this provision, and the treaty was later abrogated to allow the stone to
continue at Westminster. There it was nearly three hundred years afterward,
when a purely Scottish prince, James, son of Mary Stuart, ascended the
English throne. The two kingdoms then became one, and all parties concerned
were as content to have the stone in London as elsewhere.
After the day spent at Perth and Scone I travelled eastward to Kinross,
on the shores of Loch Leven. I suppose the majority of visitors are drawn to
the loch by its fishing, reputed to be the finest in the British Isles, but
for me its attraction consisted in the music of its
name and its association with Scotch song, story, and history. Of all the
nooks and corners into which my rambling in the vicinity of Kinross led me,
I liked best a little grove of trees just back from the reedy borders of the
lake, not far from the village. It afforded a most agreeable shelter and
lounging-place, especially in the cloudy and windy weather that prevailed
during my sojourn. The waters were gray and white-capped and the sky was
rarely otherwise than dull and threatening, though now and then blue
loopholes appeared which let stray patches of sunshine through. Usually a
wild duck or two would be in sight, bobbing over the waves with corklike
buoyancy. The view was pleasing, but not in any wise striking. Across the
lake rose a green, treeless mountain-range, and another fine grassy range
lay southward, while the loch itself was dotted with a number of small
islands. On the largest of these, five acres in extent, stood the battered
ruin of a castle peeping out from among the trees, and imparting a most
stirring interest to the scene, for those walls long ago held Mary, Queen of
Scots, a prisoner. She was only twenty-five years of age, yet shortly before
she had married for the third time. This marriage followed close on the
assassination of her second husband, Lord Darnley, in whose death the new
consort, the Earl of Bothwell, was believed to be implicated. Civil war
resulted, and the queen fell into the hands of her
enemies, and was taken to this lonely island in Loch Leven.
It was her first real imprisonment, though there had been short periods
previously, in her checkered career, when she had been held in restraint
scarcely less harassing. The southeastern tower of the castle was set apart
for her lodgings, and Lady Douglas was appointed her jailer. Though the
queen's followers had been beaten and dispersed in the recent strife, her
party was by no means extinct, and the leaders were continually plotting,
while they awaited a favorable opportunity to effect her release and restore
her to power. Neither the prison walls nor the isolation sufficed to prevent
her from keeping in constant secret communication with her friends. She was
ably aided in this by her faithful servant, John Beaton, who hovered in
disguise near Loch Leven, and never failed to find means of carrying
messages to and fro.
At length George Douglas, son of the royal prisoner's jailer, became
interested in her behalf, and assisted her in arranging a plan of escape
with an association of loyal gentlemen who had pledged- themselves to break
her chains. But before the project could be carried out it was betrayed, and
George Douglas was expelled from the castle in disgrace, and forbidden ever
to set foot on the island again.
Restraints were redoubled; yet it was only a few
days later that the queen nearly succeeded in getting away. A laundress was
employed who came across the water frequently from Kinross to fetch and
carry the linen belonging to her Majesty and her ladies. This laundress
consented to assist the queen to regain her freedom. George Douglas, who,
though expelled from the castle, remained concealed in the house of a friend
at Kinross, was to help also. Until the plans were perfected, Mary pretended
to be ill, and passed her mornings in bed, apparently indifferent to
everything. But one day, when the laundress came as usual, and went to the
queen's room to deliver the clothes she had washed, and tie up and carry
away another bundle, Mary slipped out of bed and disguised herself in the
woman's humble garments. Then she drew a muffler over her face, took the
soiled clothes in her arms, and passed out of the castle to the boat
unsuspected. All went well until, midway between the fortress and the shore,
one of the rowers, fancying there was something peculiar about the bearing
of their passenger, said jokingly to his assistant, "Come, let us see what
manner of dame this is."
Suiting the action to the word he endeavored to pull aside the lady's
muffler. She put up her hands to resist, and their whiteness and delicacy
made known her identity. She ordered the rowers to go on and take her to the
shore, and threatened to punish them if they
refused;
but they were aware how powerless she was, and instead they rowed back to
the island, agreeing, however, not to inform any one of her attempted
flight.
Soon after this Mary found an effective ally in a boy of sixteen, who
acted as page to the lady of the castle. This lad went by the name of Willie
Douglas, though among the inmates of the fortress he was oftener spoken of
as "Orphan Willie," or "Foundling Willie," from the fact that he had been
discovered lying near the castle entrance when an infant, abandoned to the
good-will of those within. Willie became a most ardent votary of the captive
queen, and he told her that below her tower was a postern gate, through
which they sometimes went out in one of the boats on the lake; he would get
the boat ready and bring the key of the gate. The boy got word to George
Douglas, and a company of armed horsemen concealed themselves in a glen
across the water, ready to become an escort for the queen the moment she was
liberated.
The guards who kept watch night and day at the gates of her Majesty's
tower were accustomed to quit their post at half-past seven each evening,
long enough to sup with the castle household in the great hall. Meanwhile
the five large keys attached to an iron chain were placed beside Sir William
Douglas on the table at which he and his mother sat in state. While waiting
on the knight and the lady Orphan Willie contrived to drop a napkin over the
keys and get them off the table without being detected. Much elated, he ran
with them to the queen's tower. Mary knew his plans, and was ready to start
as soon as he appeared. She was attired in the clothes of one of her maids,
who stayed behind to personate her royal mistress. The queen hurried to the
boat, and Willie locked all the gates behind them and threw the keys into
the water. Then with all his might he rowed for the opposite shore. The
loyal horsemen met them, and they were off into the night.
After fourteen months' imprisonment Mary Queen of Scots was free, yet in
nearly all the days following she was a fugitive, even until she fell into
the hands of Elizabeth of England, and once more was behind prison walls, no
more to have liberty save as death on the scaffold released her and ended
her troubled, fateful life.
From Kinross I went to Edinburgh, the most picturesque and interesting
large town in Britain. The ground on which it is built is much wrinkled into
hills and valleys, and on a crag that overtops all the rest is the castle.
The town's origin is lost in dim antiquity, but no doubt its founders were
attracted to the spot by the defensive advantages of the steep isolated
castle rock. There they built their clay fort, and then they began tilling
the land in the valleys and on the hills
neighboring, and when danger
threatened, they drove their cattle to the rock. On three sides the eminence
drops away almost perpendicularly, but on the fourth side it slopes gently
eastward in the form of a narrow ridge, along the top and sides of which a
town gradually formed.
I had not been long in Edinburgh before I turned my steps castleward,
crossed the drawbridge that spans the ancient moat, and dodged along through
the guides who blocked the way with offers of their services until I passed
under the portcullis-guarded arch of the entrance. As I went in a squad of
Scotch soldiers marched jauntily out with their pipes jigging merrily on
ahead. The soldiers with their bare knees, their kilts, high black hats, and
other fancy fixings, looked more as if they were gotten up for a circus
parade than for war, but they were tall, brawny fellows, and I do not
question their effectiveness.
The castle is to-day mainly composed of heavy, gray stone barracks of no
great antiquity, but among the rest is a tiny chapel erected about eight
hundred years ago, which claims to date back farther than any other building
in Scotland. The sole occupant of the chapel, as I saw it, was an old woman
who sat behind an array of guide-books for sale, like a venerable spider in
its lair, hopeful of enticing unwary flies. In a room near by one can look
through some iron bars at the
ancient Scottish crown,
sceptre, and other gewgaws of this sort; but there was to me much more charm
in the view from the fortification parapets off over the smoky city. The
castle stands at the far end of the ridge, where the rock rises highest, and
you cannot but think the situation must have possessed almost impregnable
strength in the days before the invention of heavy siege pieces. Nothing,
too, would seem more unlikely than escape from the dungeon prisons hewn in
the solid rock; yet the castle has been often taken, and prisoners have
frequently found means to get free. Even the almost vertical cliffs have
been scaled on occasions, and it is one of the pleasures of the present-day
little boys of Edinburgh to risk their necks in trying to climb the crags.
Close under the base of the hill to the north is a narrow glen. Through
the centre of this runs the railway, but the rest is laid out in lawns and
flowerbeds, with a mingling of shrubbery and trees. Formerly a body of water
known as the North Loch filled the hollow. The loch was a great help in
affording protection from that direction. To gain something of the same
security on the other side a wall was erected. For many centuries the
inhabitants huddled their dwellings along the ridge immediately east of the
castle, and they were all loath to build outside the city wall, because a
house thus exposed was nearly certain to be rifled and burned. Nor was a house inside the walls
wholly safe. The town was within easy access from the English borders, and
again and again the southern raiders gained entrance and robbed and wrecked
the houses as they willed, while the people fled to the castle and to the
shelter of the surrounding forests.
Edinburgh became the recognized capital of the kingdom after the murder
of James I at Perth in 1437. No other city in the realm afforded as great
security to the royal household against the designs of the nobles, and
thenceforth it was their place of residence. There parliament met, and there
were located the mint and various other government offices. Its importance
was in this way greatly increased, and it grew more and more densely
populated. But the days of feudalism were not yet past, and wars, plottings,
and lawlessness abounded. Edinburgh was a centre of this ferment, for which
reason the inhabitants were as reluctant as ever to live outside the walls.
To gain room they expanded their houses skyward. The town at this period
consisted of the original chief thoroughfare called the High Street and a
parallel way on the south, narrow and confined, that was known as the
Cowgate, and not until the middle of the eighteenth century did the citizens
begin to build beyond the limits. The High Street and the Cowgate
were connected by scores of narrow cross alleys, or closes.
The dwellings seldom contained less than six floors. Often there were ten or
twelve floors, and the great height to which the houses towered was the more
imposing because they were built on an eminence. "Auld Reekie" is the term
applied to this section of the city, and it is grimy enough with the stains
of smoke and age to amply merit the name. The sanitary conditions are in
many respects those of the fourteenth century, and scores of families are
crowded in some of the tall structures. Probably no other city in the
kingdom, not even London, has such grewsome rookeries.
Frequently the old houses with their thick walls and narrow entrances
have the strength of fortresses. They were indeed originally the houses of
the aristocracy of the town, who were noted for their intrigues and
violence, and with whom a house capable of defence was a matter of some
importance. As the city grew and the social conditions of the country became
more stable, the gentry abandoned Auld Reekie and built houses in the newer
sections of the city, while their former domiciles fell into the hands of
the most desperate of the poor. Yet the finer and more modern portion of the
town is prosaic and commonplace, while in Auld Reekie you cannot but feel a
marvellous attraction in the ancient gray walls and crooked, deep-worn
stairways, and the picturesque outthrust of poles from the
windows with a few rags of washing fluttering on them, and in the
heaps of chimney-pots with their blue curlings of smoke. These old buildings
have a sentiment that is never found in new ones — a something akin to human
that comes from their long connection with life and its daily labor, its
aspirations and its troubles. What stories the old stones could tell if they
had speech ! What tragedies and dark deeds they must have witnessed !
In the summer weather when I wandered among the tall houses, most of the
windows were open, and some occupant leaning out over the sill was rarely
lacking. The doorways likewise had their loiterers, and the sidewalks and
narrow wynds and closes were thickly populated. There were some
dreadful-looking creatures to be seen on Auld Reekie's byways. Once I was
startled in turning the corner of an alley to find two women fighting. They
were barefoot, bareheaded, dishevelled, and hideous. One was old and
black-faced, and had some sort of burden gathered up in her apron. The
other, who was younger, but hardly less ill-favored, was brandishing her
fists in her companion's face and talking hysterically and crying. Finally
she knocked the old woman down. But that ancient got up nimbly, and the two
indulged in further loud-voiced abuse. Then they separated, and the
gathering crowd dispersed.
The High Street as it descends the hill from the castle at length merges
into the Canongate, and the latter thoroughfare continues the gentle
downward course for about a mile to the big, dark-looking pile of Holy rood
Palace. A little to one side of the palace is a roofless ruin, all that is
left of an abbey built in the year 1128 by King David I and named in honor
of the holy cross or rood brought to Scotland a few years previously by St.
Margaret. Two centuries later this "black rood of Scotland," as it was
called, fell into English hands, and no more is known of it. Thrice the
abbey was burned by the southern foe, and a fourth time it was plundered and
burned by the mob at the revolution of 1688. For seventy years after that it
remained neglected, and when it was finally repaired the roof proved too
heavy, and fell in. The abbey has continued a ruin ever since that disaster.
The foundations of a palace apart from the abbey were laid in 1503, and
Holyrood became the chief seat of the Scottish sovereigns. It is as the
residence of the ill-starred Queen Mary that it most stirs the interest of
the average visitor. You can see her rooms, and her alleged furniture,
including the bed in which she slept, a curious affair with immensely tall
posts that hold a canopy aloft high toward the ceiling. Its quilts and
draperies are faded now and dropping to pieces, and it is a question whether
the bed in its better
days was rich and beautiful or
overcolored and tawdry. The impression the rooms made on me was that the
household comforts of the old kings and queens were not such as to stir much
modern envy.
When I departed from Edinburgh, it was to go to Stirling, a town
curiously like the one I had left, in its physical characteristics, for it
is overlooked in the same way by a great castle on the heights of a
mountainous crag. The situation, by reason of its defensive strength and its
position in the narrowest part of the northern kingdom, makes it the natural
key to the Highlands, and it was often assaulted in the quarrels of the
clans or besieged in turn by Scotch and English.
Across the valley to the northeast is a tall monument erected to the
greatest of Scotch heroes, William Wallace. It stands on a rocky cliff and
is visible for miles around, and it commands the scene of Wallace's most
famous encounter with the English. He was posted on the north bank of the
Firth of Forth, which here has the breadth of a moderate river and was
spanned at that time by a single narrow wooden bridge. The enemy, fifty
thousand strong, lay on the opposite side, but after some days' delay began
to file over. Until half the English had crossed the bridge, Wallace held
his followers in check and gave no sign. Then he fell on the invaders with
such determination that they were thrown into confusion and a headlong
rout ensued. Thousands were slain, and many more were
drowned in the river, and Wallace for the time being had "set his country
free," as he had declared was his intention.
Barely three miles from Stirling is a still more notable battleground —
the field of Bannockburn. I found conveyance thither in a public omnibus
which left me right in the centre of the ancient scene of conflict on a
broad hilltop. From here Bruce is said to have directed the battle, and a
heavy stone embedded in the earth is pointed out as having served him as a
seat and a support for his flagstaff. The stone was flat and had a hole in
the middle, and looked very like a common grindstone; but lest any one
should be tempted to carry it off for such use it has been slatted over with
iron rods — or was this to preserve it from the desecration of the relic
hunters?
I followed the rustic road down the hill and stopped on a quaint old
"brig" arching the stream that gave the battlefield its name. In the ravine
below me was the Bannockburn, a pretty brook worrying along through the
boulders that filled its channel, and wandering away in a crooked course
through the peaceful farm fields. I could detect no sign that a great battle
had ever been fought here, so slight is the effect on nature of man's
turmoils. The seasons as they come and go erase all marks of ravage and
devastation, an d
quickly restore the tranquillity
that has been momentarily interrupted.
Bannockburn was the climax in the career of that most notable of all
Scotch monarchs, Robert Bruce. In the year 1290 we find him one of thirteen
pretenders to the throne, and he spent fifteen years thereafter courting the
favor of the king of England. At the end of that period he withdrew to
Scotland. Immediately afterward he attracted general attention by stabbing a
rival claimant at Dumfries, in the church of the Grey Friars. Then he
hastened to Scone and assumed the crown. Scotland was at once roused to
arms, and war with England began. For a time the Scotch only met disaster,
and Bruce had to fly to the Highlands. He found the chiefs there bitterly
hostile to his cause, and during several years his experiences were those of
a desperate adventurer. But adversity made him a noble leader of a nation's
cause. He was hardy and strong, of commanding presence, brave, and genial in
temper. The legends tell how he was tracked by bloodhounds into the remote
glens, how he on one occasion held a pass single-handed against a crowd of
savage clansmen, how sometimes he and his little band of fugitives had
nought to eat save what they could get by hunting and fishing, and how Bruce
himself had more than once to fling off his shirt of mail and scramble up
the crags to escape his pursuers.
Little by little, however, his affairs grew brighter, until at length the
Black Douglas espoused his cause. From that time Bruce rapidly won adherents
and territory, and by 1313 he had retaken nearly all the kingdom, and even
invaded the northern counties of England, levying money and gathering such
plunder as he could carry away. Only Stirling castle remained to the
English, and the governor of that stronghold was so sorely pressed he
agreed, unless meanwhile relieved, to surrender on June 24 of the following
year. The English, to avoid this catastrophe and to prevent Scotland from
slipping wholly out of their hands, collected an enormous army. It numbered
not far from one hundred thousand fighting men, though a large proportion
consisted of wild marauders from Ireland and Wales whose efficiency was not
all it might be.
Bruce by his utmost efforts could only muster thirty thousand, yet he
prepared to confront the enemy a little to the south of Stirling. The
position he selected was on the banks of the Bannockburn, where he was
protected in part by the stream, and in part by numerous pits and trenches
he directed his soldiers to dig. June 23d the English appeared and attempted
unsuccessfully to force an entrance into the castle of Stirling with a body
of cavalry. This failure was depressing, and they were still further
disheartened by an incident
of the evening. An
English knight, Henry de Bohun, observing Bruce riding along in front of his
army, had made a sudden dash on him, intending to thrust him through with
his spear. The king was mounted on a small hackney and held in his hand only
a light battle-axe, but he parried his opponent's spear and cleft his skull
with so powerful a blow that the handle of the axe was shattered in his
grasp.
On the day following, the English advanced and assailed the whole line of
the Scotch army, wrestling with it in a hand-to-hand combat. But the
northern spearmen withstood the southern lancers and archers, and the
desperate charges, many times repeated, only resulted in adding fresh heaps
to the slain laid low by the valorous Scotch. The air was full of flying
arrows and was hideous with the noise of clashing armor, the commingling of
war-cries, and the groans of the wounded. Blood everywhere stained the
ground, which was strewn with shreds of armor, broken spears, arrows, and
pennons torn and soiled. The burn itself was so choked with fallen men and
horses that it could be crossed dry-shod.
As the day progressed, the attack weakened, and the Scotch began to push
forward; and finally the unexpected appearance of a body of the northern
camp-followers whom the English mistook for reenforcements to their
opponents made the invading
host give way along the whole front. Bruce perceived this, and led his
troops with redoubled fury against the failing ranks of the enemy. This
onset turned the English defeat into a disorderly rout. All encumbrances
were thrown away, and they made their way as best they could back to
England, and if the Scotch had had sufficient cavalry, scarcely any would
have escaped. Even as it was, nearly one-third of the original army was left
dead on the field, including two hundred knights and seven hundred squires.
The loss of the Scotch was four thousand. By this victory at Bannockburn
Bruce was firmly established on his throne and the independence of the
kingdom was won, although desultory fighting continued for years.
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