The forces of the King of England amounted, it is said, to nearly a hundred thousand men. While they were marching with their banners flying, the sun, which was glistening upon the armor and the lances, appeared to inundate the country with a flood of light. King Robert was concealed in the forests with an army of forty thousand men, nearly all on foot, awaiting the enemy, and preparing barriers which were intended to check the onslaught of the English troops, on the only spot open to attack. On the morning of the 23rd of June, 1313, the two armies met near Bannockburn. The English had hastened their march, and had arrived in some disorder, in front of the Scottish army. Lord Clifford, who attempted an ambuscade, was repulsed by Randolph, earl of Moray, nephew of King Robert and one of his best knights; the king himself, with a golden crown on his helmet, was marching slowly along the line of his troops. A relative of the Earl of Hereford's, Sir Henry Bohun, sprang forward against the "Scottish traitor," reckoning upon throwing him by the weight of his horse alone, Bruce being mounted upon one of the small horses of the country. The king did not expect the shock; he turned, however, with great skill, and Bohun's lance passed close by his side without inflicting any injury upon him. Raising himself up in his stirrups and displaying his gigantic figure, he struck the rash Englishman a terrible blow with his battle-axe: the helmet was shattered by his powerful arm, and Sir Henry Bohun, whose skull was fractured, was carried off by his horse dead. Bruce returned slowly to the spot where the greater part of his forces was concentrated. While his friends were surrounding him, reproaching him for running so great a risk, the Scottish hero was looking sorrowfully at his notched axe, and laughingly answered, "I have spoilt my good battle-axe." [Image] Robert Bruce Regretting His Battle-axe. {275} The night had been passed in prayer in the Scottish camp and in feasting and debauchery by the English. King Edward had not expected a battle, and held his forces assembled in such a manner as to render any manœuvres impossible. At daybreak the young king was astonished at the good order observed in the Scottish ranks. "Do you think they will fight?" he asked of his marshal, Sir Ingeltram d'Umfreville. At the same moment the Abbot Maurice d'Inchaffray appeared before the Scottish troops holding a crucifix in his hand. All bent their knees, all uncovered their heads. "They are asking for mercy," cried Edward. Umfreville smiled bitterly. "Of God, not of us, Sire," said he; "these men will win the battle or die at their posts." "So be it!" replied the king, as he gave the signal for the attack.