together the sounds rolled up the hillside.

Sir David sighed as he listened.

"I look," he said, "upon this city, Empress of the North, her palaces, her castles, her stately halls, her holy towers, and think what war's mischance may bring. These silvery bells may toll the knell of our gallant King. We must not dream that conquest is sure or easily bought. God is ruler of the battlefield, but when yon host begins the combat, wives, mothers, and maids may weep, and priests prepare the death service, for when such a power is led out by such a King, not all will return."

[Illustration: THE GRAVE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT, DRYBURGH ABBEY.]

CHAPTER V.

Lindesay now bade the guard open the palisade that closed the tented field, and as into its ample bounds Marmion passed, the warders' men drew back. The Scottish warriors stared at the strangers, and envy arose at seeing them so well appointed. Such length of shaft, bows so mighty, had never been seen by northern eyes. Little did the Highlanders then think to feel these shafts through links of Scotch mail on Flodden Field.

No less did Marmion and his men marvel that one small country could marshal forth such hosts. Men-at-arms were heavily sheathed in mail. They were like iron towers on Flemish steeds. Young squires and knights practiced their chargers on the plain to pass, to wheel, to curvet, that the swords of their riders might not descend amiss on foeman's casque. Hardy burghers were there, marching on foot. No waving plume, no crest they wore, but corselet, gorget, and brigantine, brightly burnished. The yeomen, too, were on foot, yet dressed in steel. Each at his back carried forty days' provisions. His arms were the halbert, axe, or spear, a crossbow, a dagger, or a sword. Each seemed almost sad at leaving the dear cottage, the simple pleasures and duties of home, to march into a foreign land. It was not cowardice, not terror, for the more they loved Scotland the more fiercely would they fight.

Quite another class was the Borderer, bred to war. He joyed to hear the roar of battle. No harp, no lute, could please his ear as did the loud slogan. Nobles might fight for fame, vassals might follow, burghers might guard their townships, but to a battle the Borderer joyfully took his way as to a game, scarce caring who might win the day.

Marmion next viewed the Celtic race. Each tribe had its own chief, its belted plaid, its warpipes varying with the clan. Their legs were bare; the undressed hide of the deer gave them buskins, a plaid covered the shoulders, and a broadsword, a dagger, a studded targe, completed the outfit.

Through the Scottish camp, the English train had now passed, and the
city gates were reached. The streets were alive with martial show. The
Lion King led to lodgings that overlooked the town. Here Marmion, by the
King's command, was to remain until the vesper hour and then to ride to
Holy-Rood. Meanwhile Sir David ordered a banquet rich and rare.

At the hour appointed, Marmion, attended by the Lion-Lord, arrived at the palace hall, at Holy-Rood. In this princely abode James was feasting the chiefs of Scotland. The historic halls rang with mirth, for well the monarch loved song and banquet. By day the tourney was held, at night the mazy dance was trod by quaint maskers. The scene of this night outshone all others. The dazzling lights hanging from the galleries, displayed the grace of lords and ladies of the court. The "motley fool" retailed his jest, the juggler performed his feat, the minstrel plied his harp, and the lady touched a softer string.

All made room as through this throng the King came to greet his guest.
And now, his courtesy to show,

    "He doff'd to Marmion, bending low,
       His broider'd cap and plume.
     For royal was his garb and mien,
       His cloak, of crimson velvet piled,
       Trimm'd with the fur of martin wild;
     His gorgeous collar hung adown,
     Wrought with the badge of Scotland's crown,
     The thistle brave, of old renown:
     His trusty blade, Toledo right,
     Descended from a baldric bright;
     White were his buskins, on the heel,
     His spurs inlaid of gold and steel:
     His bonnet, all of crimson fair,
     Was buttoned with a ruby rare:
     And Marmion deemed he ne'er had seen
     A prince of such a noble mien."

His splendid form, his eagle eyes, his light footstep, his merry laugh and speaking glance made him envied of men and adored of women. He joyed to linger in banquet bower, but often in the midst of wildest glee, a shadow and an expression of pain flitted across the handsome face. His hands instinctively clasped as he felt the pain of the penance belt, worn in memory of his slain father. In a moment the pang was past, and forward, with redoubled zest, he rushed into the stream of revelry.

Courtiers said that Lady Heron, wife of Sir Hugh of Norham, held sway over the heart of the King. To Scotland's court she had come to be a hostage, and to reconcile the offended King to her husband. The fair Queen of France also held the king in thrall. She had sent him a turquoise ring and a glove, and charged him as her knight in English fray, to break for her a lance. For love of the French Queen, as much as for the rights of Scotland, he clothed himself in mail and put his country's noblest, dearest, and best in arms, to die on Flodden Field. For Love of Lady Heron, he admitted English spies to his inmost counsels.

    "And thus, for both, he madly planned
     The ruin of himself and land."

For these two artful women he sacrificed the true happiness of his home.

    "Nor England's fair, nor France's Queen,
     Were worth one pearl-drop bright and sheen,
       From Margaret's eyes that fell,—
     His own Queen Margaret, who, in Lithgow's bower
     All lonely sat, and wept the weary hour."

In gay Holy-Rood, Dame Heron, Lady of Norham, smiled at the King, glanced archly at the courtiers, and ably played the coquette. When asked to draw from the harp music to charm the ring of admirers, she laughed, blushed, and with pretty oaths, by yea and nay, declared she could not, would not, dare not! At length, however, she seated herself at Scotland's loved instrument, touched and tuned the strings, laid aside hood and wimple, the better to display her charms, and with a borrowed simplicity well assumed, sang a lively air, Lochinvar.

    "Oh, young Lochinvar is come out of the west,
     Through all the wild border his steed was the best;
     And, save his good broadsword, he weapon had none,
     He rode all unarm'd, and he rode all alone;
     So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,
     There never was knight like the young Lochinvar.

    "He stayed not for brake, and he stopped not for stone;
     He swam the Esk river, where ford there was none;
     But ere he alighted at Netherby gate,
     The bride had consented, the gallant came late;
     For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war,
     Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.

    "So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall,
     Among bride's-men, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all:
     Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword,
     For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word,
     'O come ye in