before a noble castle on the side of the valley of the Tyne. It was Crichtoun Hall, near the city of Edinburgh, and was a lodging meet for one of highest rank. Tower after tower rose to view, each built in a different age and each displaying a different style of architecture.

    "A mighty mass that could oppose,
     When deadliest hatred fired its foes."

Through the gate rode the English ambassador, but met by none of the rank and file usual on such occasions. Only women, old men, and children occupied the castle. The sorrowing mistress of the hall gave welcome, and a stripling of twelve years offered his best service. Every man that could draw a sword had marched that morning to conquer or to die on Flodden Field. Long would the lady look in vain to see her husband and his gallant band return.

Here Marmion and his men rested for two days, attended as became a King's guest, yet practically a prisoner. This was by the royal command. James did not choose that English eyes should look upon Scotland's gathering forces until they were ready to march against the foe. When Marmion was moody Lindesay's wit cheered; policies of war and of peace were discussed, and the lore of Rome and Greece was reviewed.

The second night, as they walked by the fading light on the battlements of Crichtoun Castle, Lindesay carelessly remarked that the journey of Marmion, the toil of travel, might as well have been spared, for no power on earth or from heaven could dissuade James from war. A holy messenger sent by divine command had appeared in spirit, and vainly counselled the King against the impending conflict.

More closely questioned, Sir David told the following tale:

"When the King was but a lad, a thoughtless prince, traitors had set the boy in the army hostile to his royal father. The King, seeing his own banner displayed against him, and his son in the opposing faction, lost courage, fled from the field, and in fleeing fell and was slain. After the battle, James returned to Stirling Castle, seized with deep remorse. Ever after, he inflicted upon himself most severe penance.

"While engaged one day in self-imposed penitential devotions, there appeared to him, in the chapel of Linlithgow, a vision. At the time, around him in their stalls, sat the Knights of the Thistle, chanters sung, and bells tolled. The monarch in sackcloth, and wearing the painful iron belt which constantly reminded him of his father's death, was kneeling in prayer, when there appeared the loved disciple, John, who in these words warned the King against warfare:

    "'Sir King, to warn thee not to war—
        Woe waits on thine array;
      James Stuart, doubly warn'd, beware,
        God keep thee as he may!'

"When the King raised his head, the monitor had vanished.

    "'The Marshal and myself had cast
      To stop him as he outward pass'd;
      But, lighter than the whirlwind's blast,
        He vanish'd from our eyes,
      Like sunbeam on the billow cast
      That glances but, and dies.'"

While telling the strange story, Sir David had not marked in the dim twilight the pallor that had overspread the countenance of Marmion, who, after a pause, said:

"Three days ago, I had judged your tale a myth, but since crossing the
Tweed, I have seen that which makes me credit the miracle you relate."

He hesitated, and evidently wished his remark unmade, but pressed by the strong impulse that prompts man to reveal a secret to some listening ear, he told of the midnight ride and the tilt with the elfin knight at Gifford's Court. The same sly expression crept over the face of the King-at-arms as he asked, "Where lodged the Palmer on that fateful night?"

Here their conversation was interrupted. By the King's command, each train on the following day was to proceed by its own way to Scotland's camp, near Edinburgh. Early they set out for the moor surrounding the city, where lay the Scotch hosts.

From the crown of Blackford, Marmion gazed on the martial scene. It was a Kingdom's vast array. Thousands on thousands of pavilions, white as snow, dotted the upland, dale, and down, and checkered the heath between town and forest. The relics of the old oaks softened the glaring white with a background of restful green.

From north, from south, from east, from west, had gathered Scotland's warriors. All between the ages of sixteen and sixty, from king to vassal, stood ready to fight for the beloved land. Marmion heard the mingled hum of myriads of voices float up the mountain side. He saw the shifting lines, and marked the flashing of shield and lance. Nor did he mark less that in the air,

    "A thousand streamers flaunted fair,
       Various in shape, device and hue,
       Green, sanguine, purple, red, and blue,
     Broad, narrow, swallow-tailed, and square,
     Scroll, pennon, pensil, bandrol, there
       O'er the pavilions flew.
     Highest and midmost, was descried
     The royal banner floating wide;
       The staff, a pine-tree, strong and straight,
     Pitch'd deeply in a massive stone,
       Yet bent beneath the standard's weight
       Whene'er the western wind unroll'd,
       With toil, the huge and cumbrous fold,
     And gave to view the dazzling field,
     Where, in proud Scotland's royal shield,
       The ruddy lion ramped in gold.

    "Lord Marmion view'd the landscape bright,—
     He viewed it with a chief's delight,—
       Until within him burn'd his heart,
         As on the battle-day;
       Such glance did falcon never dart,
       When stooping on his prey.
     'Oh! well, Lord Lion, hast thou said,
     Thy King from warfare to dissuade
       Were but a vain essay;
     For, by St. George, were that host mine,
     Nor power infernal, nor divine,
     Should once to peace my soul incline,
     Till I had dimmed their armor's shine
       In glorious battle-fray!'"

A bard near at hand replied:

"'Tis better to sit still, than rise, perchance to fall."

From this scene of preparation for battle, their eyes wandered to the fairest scene of peace. The distant city glowed in gloomy splendor. The sun's morning beams tinged turret and tower. The wreaths of rising smoke turned to clouds of red and gold. Dusky grandeur clothed the height where the huge castle stood in state. Far to the north, ridge on ridge, rose the mountains, the rosy morning light bathing their sides in floods of sunshine, and turning each heather bell at their feet into an amethyst. Yonder could be seen the shores of Fife, nearer Preston Bay and Berwick. Between them rolled the broad Firth, islands floating on its bosom like emeralds on a chain of gold.

    "Fitz-Eustace' heart felt closely pent;
     As if to give his rapture vent,
     The spur he to his charger lent,
       And raised his bridle hand,
     And making demivolte in air,
     Cried, 'Where's the coward that would not dare
       To fight for such a land!'"

While they gazed the time arrived for King James to take his way to a solemn mass. The distant bells chimed the hour, the fife, the sackbut, the psaltery, the cymbal, the war-pipe, in discordant cry took up the note, and