And now the handsome, stern king with the drooping eyelid begins to speak in deep, vibrant tones, and the interpreter turns his words into the tongue of old Britain. He will give them a prince of their own. “Nay,” they cry out, “we will have no prince but one born in our own land and speaking our own tongue.” Edward turns to the nurse who stands by, takes from her his newly-born son, and holds him aloft to the astonished gaze of the chieftains. “Here is your prince,” he cries; “he was born in Wales, and he knows not a word of the English tongue.” The humour of it appeals to the assembled throng. Yes, yes, they will swear fealty to him, but he must have a Welsh nurse, and he must learn to speak their language. Edward gladly agrees, and swears on the hilt of his sword to “keep faith.” So the Welsh have once more a prince of their own, and thus it comes about that the eldest son of an English king bears the proud title Prince of Wales. Now Edward betakes himself to the more serious work of settling the government of the land. Wales is to keep her old customs and laws, and Welshmen are to retain the freedom and the estates which they enjoyed under their own princes. All is done that can be done to make the foreign yoke easy and the burden light; but many a wicked deed will be perpetrated and many an injustice will be wrought before Welshmen are reconciled to the loss of their independence. But the day will come when, secure in their freedom and reinforced by their union with the mightier land on their borders, there will be no more loyal and stauncher hearts in the whole Empire than those which beat in “gallant little Wales.” [Illustration: =THE FIRST PRINCE OF WALES.= (_From the picture by P. R. Morris, A.R.A._)] [Illustration] WILLIAM WALLACE. “_At Wallace’ name what Scottish blood_ _But boils up in a spring-time flood._” Now let the scene shift to Scotland, where the masterful Edward, having subdued Wales, is seeking to lay his hands upon yet another kingdom. Truly the condition of the land invites him to conquest. The Scottish king, on a night ride along the cliffs of the Fifeshire coast, has fallen over the black rocks, and he is no more. The sceptre passes to a frail little grandchild in far-off Norway; but ere she can tread the soil of her kingdom, she too has gone the way of all flesh. The royal line is extinct, and the throne of Scotland is without an heir.