Whereat, Sir William, like a smouldering fire, Flared up to burn the foot whose thoughtless kick Had tortured it to flame. In speechless rage He grasped the caitiff's throat and smote him dead. About two score well-harnessed Englishmen, With whom I was, did straight environ him. Against a wall he bore which seemed to be Rather upheld by him than him upholding, And reaped us down like corn. He did, my lords. He multiplied his strokes so that he seemed To multiply himself; there did appear Opposed to every soldier there a Wallace. Without or helm or mail, in summer-weed, Grass-green, flowered red with blood, he fought us all, Till one that bit the dust writhed near enough To pierce him in the leg, and then he fell. Yet even so he might have won away; But as he rose he fetched a blow at me, Which I eluding, down his breaking brand Upon the causeway struck; and in his eyes A light went out, when his uplifted hand Showed but the hilt. In faith I pitied him, I pitied him, and bore him to the tower. There in a filthy dungeon he expired Of festering wounds and food that swine refused, Ere they had settled what death was his due. Edward I. But he is here alive? Beaumont. Pardon, dread lord; He seemed at that time dead: the West mourned for him: His aged nurse bought his corrupting corpse To bury it decently in hallowed ground. Well, after that a while, in Lanark town, I waited in the High Street on the judge, Lord Ormesby, then on circuit in the West. Four men were with me. One, on fire with wine, A braggart at the best, vaunted his deeds. And when two men came down the street, he cried, "See yonder stalks a canny muffled Scot, A strapper, by this light! attended, too! He's like to have that may be taxable. Something I'll mulct him of; or something give, That shall be worse than nothing--namely, blows!" "Belike," said I, "that boon will not go quit. His side is guarded by a lengthy purse, Whose bright contents, I think, he will not hoard." "I'll have his sword," quoth he, "if he refuse, Take it, and beat him with it till he shake His dastard body out of his habergeon; Which, leaving here, he'll give me hearty thanks, That I leave him his skin, the lousy Scot!" And so he staggered out to meet the two. The muffled stranger whispered to his man, And he sped on before in anxious haste, Dodging the drunk man's outstretched arm, who said, "Well, you may go; your master is behind." And when the master came he stopped him, saying, "Knave Scot, unveil! Come, show your sonsy face. Vile thief, where did you steal this tabard green? And where the devil got you this fair knife? What! jewelled in the hilt! Unbuckle, quick, Mantle and whittle; and to make amends For having ever worn them, clasp them both About me, and you shall have leave to go." "St. Andrew! There's my whittle, English dog!" And with a thrust the Scot let out his life. We others rushed upon him instantly, Shouting, "Down with him! Vengeance on the