Levelling their spears, long the national weapon of the Scottish infantry, and with wild cries of Albanach! Albanach! the ancient _slogan_ of the warriors of the north, the first division of the assailants rushed to the charge; and such was the impetuosity of their onset, that the front ranks of the English reeled beneath the shock, and were borne back in confusion upon the dismounted knights around the standard. But then came to pass all that David had anticipated, and the unprotected lines of Scottish spearmen recoiled, and were dashed back like breakers from off a reef, before the steady discipline of that animated wall of iron. Broken, but not discouraged, they cast aside their fractured and useless lances, and, with drawn swords, once more flung themselves, with reckless valour, upon the foe: but the front ranks of the English had now rallied, and, from behind their dismounted comrades, the archers poured in a storm of arrows, those fatal Norman weapons which won so many a field for England in the days of old. Unsheltered from the shower of missiles by any defensive armour, rank after rank of the assailants went down before the English bowmen, the best and bravest of their leaders falling in fruitless efforts to penetrate the fatal line; and already the attack was slackening, when Prince Henry brought his mounted division into the battle, and the Norman chivalry of Scotland, with the disciplined retainers of Eustace Fitz-John, bore down with levelled lances to the charge. His success was complete. That part of the English army which sustained the shock, was ridden down and swept from the field; and the prince, elated with his easy triumph, and imagining that the whole Scottish army was pressing on in support, wheeled round in the rear of the English position to complete a victory not yet achieved, and charging the mounted guard left to protect the horses, broke and pursued them for many miles. His error was fatal; for the critical moment of the day had arrived, and the English were rapidly giving way, none holding their ground except the veteran phalanx in the centre, when suddenly a gory head was raised aloft, and the voice of one who was never subsequently recognized, loudly proclaimed that the king of Scotland was slain. More than once has such a cry turned the fortune of the day against a brave, but undisciplined, army. Upon the field of Assingdon it won the realm of England for Canute; at Hastings it all but wrested the same prize from the Norman William, though he led the flower of Europe to the field; and it decided the day upon Cutton Moor in favour of the confederate army. No longer pressed by the division of Prince Henry, the English rallied at the cry; and the Galwegians, who for two hours had prolonged their attack with desperate and unflinching courage, until the last of their chieftains fell beneath an English arrow, panic stricken at their loss, turned and fled the field; whilst