It is the Sabbath morning of June 23rd, in the year 1314. On comes the English host, with its countless banners, standards, and pennons waving in the breeze. The sun glints from burnished helmet and spear as the dense battalions draw near. To an observer on the castle walls it would seem that they were about to make an immediate attack. The Bruce is arraying his men, clad in full armour, and carrying a battle-axe in his hand, but riding a light palfrey in place of the heavy charger that is to carry him to-morrow. That panoply of armour which he wears hides the real man from you. Were you to see him out of harness, you would mark his strong and powerful frame, his close, curly hair, his full, broad forehead, his high cheek-bones, and the square and massive jaw that tells of determination and dogged courage. Now the English army halts, and a vainglorious knight, one Sir Henry Bohun, seeing the Bruce so poorly horsed, thinks to do a deed of valorous renown. So he spurs his charger, and levelling his spear bears down upon the Scottish king. As he comes rushing on at full speed, the Bruce twitches his palfrey’s bridle, and the little creature obediently starts aside. Then, as the knight goes rushing by, Bruce rises in his stirrups and smites him fiercely on the helmet with his battle-axe. It crashes through helmet and skull, and the riderless steed gallops wildly away. The first stroke of the great fight has been struck, and the Bruce has won. As he rides back to his lines his knights take him to task for his adventure, reminding him that an accident would have robbed them of their leader. Bruce listens to their chidings, and only replies, “I have broken my good battle-axe.” Another misfortune befalls the English. Three hundred young horsemen, eager for the fray, see a clear way lying before them to the castle. On they spur towards it, but find their road blocked by a party of Scottish spearmen, who form a deadly circle of bristling steel. In vain the knights spur their horses to the attack; the schiltron remains unbroken, though hidden from sight by the cloud of dust and heat which rises from the plain. Now the spearmen advance and drive back the weary and disheartened horsemen. Grim foreboding this of the great fight to-morrow. The short summer night falls on the battlefield, and loud sounds of revelry come from the English camp. The Scots sleep in the open, and when the sun has risen Edward sees them massed in schiltrons beneath their banners. “Will yon Scotsmen fight?” he asks of a veteran by his side. “Yea, siccarly, sire,” he replies, and at the moment the Scots bend the knee as the crucifix is borne along their line. “Yon folk kneel for mercy,” says the king; and again the veteran replies, “Yea, sire, but not of you. Yon men will win or die.” “So be it,” cries Edward, and gives the signal for his trumpeters to sound the charge.