The royal Scot was perplexed in the extreme. But let me do the unhappy king justice. No craven fear was in the heart of the son of Bruce as, in the hour of despair, he gathered around him the remnants of his host, and made a last struggle with his victorious adversaries. Forming his remaining troops into a circle, he faced his foes with a courage worthy of his birth, and, disdaining the thought of surrender, fought no longer for victory, no longer even for life, but for a death that would admit his name to a place in the roll of heroes.
But the aspirations of the King of Scots after a warrior's grave were not to be gratified. His doom was not to die that day. He was not to escape the fate he had defied.
It was about the hour of noon; and I, having done what in me lay to render complete the triumph of that day, was riding over the field, strewn with corpses and slippery with gore, when, on reaching Merrington, my attention was attracted to a spot where around a warrior on horseback, fighting desperately against a multitude, a conflict still raged. It was the King of Scots making his last futile efforts to avoid captivity.
Already he had been wounded in two places; his sword had been beaten from his hand, when an arrow brought him to the ground. As he regained his feet, Copeland, who was on the watch, sprang from his charger.
"Yield, sir king—rescue or no rescue," said the Northumbrian.
"Never," answered the royal Scot; "I will rather die than surrender."
"Nay," urged Copeland, "you have done all that a brave man could."
"Varlet!" exclaimed the king, turning fiercely upon Copeland, "it is not for such as you to judge what a king ought to do in the hour of despair."
And, as he spoke, he raised his gauntleted hand, and struck the Northumbrian in the mouth with such force that two of a set of teeth which were none of the most fragile were broken by the blow.