**The standard of Edward I, was a golden dragon—a very ancient British standard, but derived from pagan times.-(1809.)
The interest of the scene, and the clatter of the arms he was dispensing, prevented anybody present hearing any sound of what was taking place beyond the room. But the earl had hardly uttered these words, when the double-doors of the apartment were abruptly opened, and all eyes were blasted by the sudden sight of Lord Soulis,** and a man in splendid English armor, with a train of Southron soldiers, following the recreant Scot.
**William Lord Soulis was a powerful chief in the south of Scotland. He founded pretensions to the Scottish crown, on his descent from an illegitimate daughter of Alexander II. Soulis was a traitor to his country, and so notoriously wicked, that tradition endows him with the power of infernal necromancy. His castle of Hermitage, in Teviotdale, is still shown as the resort of malignant demons.-(1809.)
The earl started from his couch. "Lord Soulis! what is the occasion of this unapprised visit?"
"The ensign of the liege lord of Scotland is my warrant!" replied he; "you are my prisoner; and in the name of King Edward of England, I take possession of this castle."
"Never!" cried the earl, "while there is a man's arm within it."
"Man and woman," returned Lord Soulis, "must surrender to Edward. Three thousand English have seized three hundred of our insurgents on Bothwell Moor. The castle is surrounded, and resistance impossible. Throw down your arms!" cried he, turning to the clansmen, who thronged round their chief; "or be hanged for rebellion against your lawful sovereign!"
"Our lawful sovereign!" returned a young man who stood near him, "must be the enemy of Edward; and to none else will we yield our arms!"
"Traitor!" cried the English commander, while with a sudden and dreadful stroke of his battle-ax he laid the body of the generous Scot a headless corpse at his feet. A direful cry proceeded from his enraged comrades. Every sword was drawn; and before the bewildered and soul-struck earl could utter a word, the Furies blew their most horrible blast through the chamber; and the half-frantic Mar beheld his brave Scots at one moment victorious, and in the next the floor strewed with their dead bodies. A new succession of blood-hounds had rushed in at every door; and before the exterminating sword was allowed to rest, the whole of his faithful troops lay around him, wounded and dying. Several had fallen across his body, having warded with their lives the strokes they believed leveled at his. In vain his voice had called upon his men to surrender—in vain he had implored the iron-hearted Soulis, and his coadjutor Aymer de Valence, to stop the havoc of death.
All now lay in blood; and the heat of the room, thronged by the victors, became so intolerable that De Valence, for his own sake, ordered the earl to be removed into another apartment.