“It is but now to descend by these corded steps,” whispered Bruce to the captive maiden, “and I’ll ferry you across this muddy water.” But the maiden was as brave as she was fair, and knowing that any delay would risk the taking of the fortress by the brave Bruce, she heroically answered:—
“Please your Grace, no! Allow me the keeping of your dagger till you return with further scaling-gear and your valiant band. Thus armed, I’ll know how to defend myself, and I will watch these enemies till you return.”
So King Robert, leaving the brave girl as a sentinel upon the parapet, quickly waded again through the murky waters of the moat, and having regained his band, reported his experience. Immediately fifty of his most daring men, selected for their great height, plunged into the dark waters of the moat, led by the valiant Bruce.
“Saw ye ever the like of that?” exclaimed a French knight who had lately joined the Scottish patriots. “What shall we say to our lords, when so worthy a knight and noble a monarch exposeth himself to such great peril to win a wretched hamlet?”
With this he gaily threw himself into the water, followed by the rest of the Scottish army. When Bruce again reached the maiden she said, “The late revellers are now in their slumbers; the watchword with them is ‘The Lost Standard.’” The brave maiden then aided the king to adjust the rope ladders, by which the Scots scaled the wall, one by one, until a strong force stood at their side. “‘The Lost Standard’ is the word,” said the king; “and now for the citadel!” It was, indeed, a Lost Standard to the drowsy guards and sleeping revellers. The fortress was soon taken, and the captives set free. King Robert afterwards besieged the fortress of Stirling, when the governor, Sir Philip Mowbray, contrived to make his appeals for succor reach the English king. Edward roused himself from his natural indolence, and raised a large army to march against Scotland. The forces of the English amounted to nearly one hundred thousand men. This brilliant army, with banners flying and lances glistening in the sunlight, presented a grand array. Meanwhile, King Robert was concealed in the forests with an army of only forty thousand men, nearly all on foot, awaiting the enemy, and preparing barriers to check the onslaught of the English. On the morning of the 23d of June, 1313, the two armies met near Bannockburn. The night had been passed in prayer in the Scottish camp, and in feasting and drunkenness by the English. At daybreak the young English king was astonished at the good order observed in the Scottish ranks.
“Do you think they will fight?” he asked of Sir Ingletram d’Umfreville. Just then the abbot of Inchaffray appeared before the Scottish troops, holding a crucifix in his hand; all bent their knees with uncovered heads.
“They are asking for mercy,” cried King Edward.
“Yes, sire,” replied Umfreville, with a bitter smile; “but of God, not of you, sire. These men will win the battle or die at their posts.”
The sight of the vast English army might well cause the brave hearts of the small band of Scots to tremble; but with the intrepid Bruce at their head, they awaited their foes with dauntless courage. So vast were the English forces, that it is said the country seemed on fire by the brightness of the shields and burnished helmets gleaming in the morning light. So vast was the multitude of embroidered banners, of standards, of pennons, and spears; so apparently endless the crowds of knights, blazing in their rich-colored and gemmed surcoats; so large the extent of country occupied by their numerous tents,—that one might have thought all the warriors of the world were marching against this handful of valiant Scots. The English had hastened their march and arrived with some disorder in front of the Scottish army. King Robert Bruce, with a golden crown on his helmet, was riding slowly before the line of his troops. As the brave king thus rode along upon his favorite palfrey, clad in armor and carrying his battle-axe in his hand, encouraging his men by his calm voice and brave words, the English king took special note of him, and remarked, “Doubtless yonder solitary rider is of the foe, although he is almost as nigh to our front as to that of the rebels. Canst tell, Sir Knight, of what account he is, and wherefore this manœuvre?”
“My liege,” replied Sir Giles d’Argentine, to whom King Edward had spoken, “he who yonder marshalleth the Scottish host was once my frequent associate, and is well known to me, as I clearly descry from the jewelled diadem which glittereth on his helmet. It is none other than Bruce himself.”