“They are, my Lord,” replied Hart.
“Go to them, then, Robert, and tell them, that with their leave we shall march anon. But, by St. Andrew, there shall be no appearance of unseemly haste. Let the sun, that saw the Piersie’s pennon planted yesternight ere he did go to bed, be suffered to look upon it for some time after he be well risen again, so that we may not be accused of being more dexterous in carrying off our prey than bold in defending it.”
The little Scottish army broke up from their encampment with as much composure as if they had been in a friendly country, and marched leisurely off with loud cheers. Harry Piersie was on the wall, and his blood boiled at the very sound.
“By the holy St. Cuthbert, they mock me,” cried he, his face flushing with anger; “ay, an well may they too,” continued he, striking his forehead. “Oh, I could leap over these walls from very despite. By the mass, their numbers are naught; see how small their columns appear; already the last of them are gone; oh, is it not enow to drive me to madness!”—and, dashing his mailed foot to the ground, he turned away to gnaw his nails with vexation.
After taking two or three turns with his brother along the rampart, he suddenly called for an esquire, and ordered him to procure some intelligent scouts; to these he gave orders to follow the Scottish line of march, and to bring him frequent and accurate intelligence of their numbers, their route, and all their actions; and, having taken this precaution, he and Sir Rafe Piersie continued to pace the walls by themselves, giving vent, from time to time, to their indignation and disappointment, in abrupt sentences addressed to each other. During that day and the evening following it, large reinforcements of troops poured [[437]]into Newcastle, from different quarters of the circumjacent country; and the stronger Hotspur found himself, the more impatient he became to make use of his strength.
“Ay, ay, see where they come; see where they come, brother Rafe,” said he in a pettish tone. “But what come they for, an we have them not in the field? Depardieux, from the careless guise and strutting gait of some of these butter-headed burghers, and clod-pated churls, meseems as if they came more to parade it in a fair than to fight.”
“If we can but get them once into the field,” said Sir Rafe Piersie, “by all that is good, we shall teach the knaves another bearing and another step.”
“Ay, marry, would that we but had them in the field, indeed,” replied Hotspur; “the very smell of battle hath a marvellous virtue in it, and doth oftentimes convert the veriest dolt into a hero. Of such fellows as these men, one might make rare engines for recovering a lost pennon, yea, as of finer clay. Would we but had them fit the proof. But a plague upon these cautious seniors of the council, methinks my patience was miraculous; nay, in truth, most miraculous, to hear that old driveller talk of my paltry pennon, and not to dash my gauntlet in his teeth for the word.”
“Nay, I could hardly keep my hands down,” cried Sir Rafe Piersie. “Methinks our blood must be cooling, or else even his age should have been no protection.”
“’Tis better as it is, Rafe,” replied Hotspur; “but why tarry these scouts of mine? I shall fret me to death ere they return. Why are we not blessed with the power of seeing what doth pass afar off? Had I this faculty, how would mine eyes soar over the Douglas and my pennon!”