Ere long their banners are seen approaching. The Earl of Surrey, an old man broken in health, is in command, but the real leader is “fat and foolish” Sir Hugh Cressingham, Edward’s Lord-Treasurer in Scotland, a haughty and insolent priest, who wears his corselet with a better grace than his cassock. The English halt on the south side of the river, and are eager for an immediate attack, but wiser counsels prevail. So the watch-fires are lighted, and the two armies lie in sight of each other through the silent night, with the deep and sluggish Forth flowing between. Now the trumpets sound, and Sir Marmaduke Twenge leads his squadron of mail-clad knights to the bridge across the Forth, while Cressingham follows hard behind. The spearmen of Wallace, posted on the high ground, are in no hurry to attack. They make no sign as the knights cross the bridge and form up on the opposite shore, ready to charge the Scots on the hillside. Half the English army has crossed ere you perceive the trap into which it has fallen. Look yonder at that strong force of Scottish spearmen fetching a wide circuit and keeping near to the river. Now they begin to run towards the bridge. They cut through the line of the advancing English and block the bridge-head with a hedge of bristling steel. They drive back in a tumultuous heap the advancing horsemen on the crowded bridge, and now the moment for which Wallace has so long waited arrives. He charges furiously down the hillside, and hurls back the English squadrons in dire confusion. Horse and foot are inextricably mingled; hundreds go down before the Scottish spears, and vast numbers are driven into the river, which is lashed into foam by the drowning struggles of thousands of men and horses. Surrey, horror-stricken at the sight, now advances the royal standard of England, and his strong reserve of knights charge the bridge with the cry “For God and St. George.” The bridge is carried, but on the opposite shore there is no room to form, and they only increase the confusion and swell the slaughter. Of all that have crossed that fatal bridge only three return. All is over, and Surrey on the farther shore sets spurs to his horse. Keen and fierce is the pursuit, and terrible is the slaughter. Edward’s proud host is scattered like chaff before the wind, and Scotland is free again.