Forthwith a round dozen of eager aspirants set up their claims to the vacant throne. All save two are men of straw, with hardly the colour of a right to the kingship. But Robert Bruce, Lord of Annandale, and John Baliol, Lord of Galloway, both come of the royal stock, and both have their clamorous supporters. Who shall judge betwixt them? Edward seizes the opportunity. He—so he declares—is overlord of Scotland, and he and none other will decide. So chronicles and title-deeds and charters are collected from many a muniment chest, and he and his councillors are soon busy examining them. When all is ready, he arrays an army and marches north to the Border castle of Norham, on the Tweed. To this place come the magnates of Scotland to hear his award. But before it is pronounced he claims that they shall recognize him as lord paramount. Some of the Scottish chiefs demur, but the English king cries, “By St. Edward, whose crown I wear, I will maintain my just right or die in the cause.” Might is right in his case, and the Scottish nobles, in the distracted state of the kingdom, are forced to admit his claim. And now, having secured the first point in the game, Edward gives judgment in favour of John Baliol, a lamb-like person, the least stalwart and the least Scottish of all the claimants. He is a weak creature, and Edward knows that he will be a pliant tool. So Baliol bows to Edward, and receives the crown of Scotland. Ere long Baliol begins to feel Edward’s bit gall his mouth. He is continually being pulled up and jerked hither and thither by the strong hand of his rider. Baliol submits time after time, but at length even his sluggish spirit is roused, and one day he throws off his allegiance and declares war. Edward has long been waiting for this turn of fortune’s wheel; he has long been working for this fatal outburst. Speedily he marches north with a great army and sweeps through the country, a ruthless conqueror. None can stand against him, and the “puppet king” least of all. See Baliol now, about to do public penance for his so-called misdeeds. The English barons are assembled in a churchyard, and thither they lead the king of the Scots mounted on a sorry nag. A herald proclaims his treason. His crown is snatched from his head, the sceptre from his hand, the royal robes from his person. A humble penitent, clad only in his body garments and holding a white rod in his hand, he meekly confesses his fault and acknowledges the justice of his punishment. A few days later he gives up his crown to Edward, and is dispatched a prisoner to the Tower of London. So Edward returns to his kingdom, leaving Scotland beaten to the ground, sore and humiliated, but passionately longing for revenge. With him he carries every token and memorial of Scottish independence—the crown and the sceptre, and the Stone of Destiny, on which Scottish kings have been crowned from time immemorial.