"No victory can come to a heart filled with dark forebodings such as mine," said he to Montrose.
The Duke's reply was lost in the hollow of his helmet.
"No doubt young Rothesay is surrounded by a flattering crowd, all anxious to hail him as James IV."
"Ah, say not so, sire," said the faithful old peer, with a sigh; "yet such, alas, is perhaps the fate of kings."
"The fate of kings! thou thinkest so?—to see their own flesh and blood rise in rebellion up against them," replied James, incoherently; "yet is there not an old proverb—a prophecy—which says—what said it?"
Montrose did not reply.
"What said it?" repeated James, impatiently.
"That in Scotland this year a lion shall be slain by its whelps."
The king grew pale as death, for at that moment the wind blew out the banner of the third division of the insurgents, and above their long lines of shining helmets he recognised his own imperial flag, with the red lion rampant in its golden field.
"If I this day am slain, and the boy, my son, made king," said he, huskily, "Scotland—Scotland—what will become of her? Lord of St. John, doth not the scripture say, 'woe unto the land whose monarch is a child'? and my simple-hearted Rothesay is but little more in years."