8. But Bruce was soon reduced to greater straits, and, without followers, was obliged to conceal himself in stables and caves. In all his misfortunes he never gave up the cause of his country, and he sacredly devoted his life to the freedom of Scotland. After one of his defeats he was lying one night on a wretched bed in a rude hut, while debating in his own mind whether it were not best to enlist in a crusade, when his attention was directed to a spider on the rafters overhead. He saw that the little spinner was trying to swing from one rafter to another, so as to fix his thread across the space. Time and again it tried and failed. Admiring the perseverance of the creature, Bruce began to count the number of times he tried. One, two, three, four, five, six. It suddenly occurred to Bruce that this was just the number of times he had failed in his attempts against the enemy. He then made up his mind that if the spider succeeded in the next trial he would make one more endeavor to recover his kingdom, but if it failed he would start at once for Palestine. The spider sprang into the air, and this time succeeded, so the king resolved upon another trial, and never after met with a defeat. [Illustration: _Edinburgh Castle_] 9. Many a wild story is told of his feats of arms and hairbreadth escapes while he wandered about without a country. Sir Walter Scott, in his poem, "The Lord of the Isles," records one of these legends. It is reported that, on one occasion, with his brother Edward and sister Isabel in a boat, he was driven by stress of weather to take refuge in one of the Hebrides upon the western coast, the home of Roland, the Lord of the Isles. It happened to be a festive occasion, a large assembly having met to celebrate the marriage of the Lord of the Isles with the sister of the Lord of Lorn. As Bruce entered the banquet-hall, Lorn recognized him: 10. "Now, by Columba's shrine I swear, And every saint that's buried there, 'Tis he himself!" Lorn sternly cries; "And for my kinsman's death he dies!" As loudly Roland calls, "Forbear! Not in my sight while brand I wear, O'ermatched by odds shall warrior fall, Or blood of stranger stain my hall! This ancient fortress of my race Shall be misfortune's resting-place, Shelter or shield of the distressed, No slaughter-house of shipwrecked guest!" 11. "Talk not to me," fierce Lorn replied, "Of odds or match! When Comyn died, Three daggers clashed within his side! Talk not to me of sheltering hall, The church of God saw Comyn fall! On God's own altar streamed his blood, While o'er my prostrate kinsman stood The ruthless murderer--e'en as now-- With armèd hand and scornful brow! Up, all who love me! blow on blow, And lay the outlawed felons low!" * * * * *