On dash the English horsemen with levelled spears, and now you hear the loud crash as lance clangs on shield. Down go men and horses, only to be trodden under foot by the ranks behind. Nothing can break the Scottish ranks. But where are the archers who wrought such havoc at Falkirk? Now is their time. Alas, they have been badly posted, and are unsupported by men-at-arms. A few hundred Scots horsemen are sufficient to send them flying hither and thither without the hope of ever rallying again. Meanwhile a great hand-to-hand contest is raging. You hear the shouts and cries of the warriors, the groans of the wounded and dying, the loud clash of meeting weapons, as the vast, dense mass of the English rises and falls like waves of the sea. It is a mob that fights on the narrow field, and not an army. The ground is cumbered with fallen men and horses. Many a good knight has no room to swing his weapon. He cannot advance, and the pressure behind will not let him retreat. But slowly and surely the throng is pushed back by the Scottish spears, and the day looks black for England. All discipline is now lost, and the battle is a series of individual struggles. Lifting their eyes, the hard-pressed English see a fresh host marching down a neighbouring hill, and hear their slogans peal out above the din and tumult of battle. They are camp followers who have cut down saplings for banner-poles and spread their blankets for standards; but, in sooth, they look a warlike and formidable band in the distance. The hearts of the English fail them at the sight; they waver, and the Scots press on with redoubled vigour. The retreat has begun; it will soon be an utter rout. The English king gallops to Dunbar without drawing rein. His followers scatter hither and thither. All is over. The great battle is lost and won. The Bannock burn is choked with the dead bodies of the slain; thirty thousand English lie dead on that fatal field. The great task which Wallace had set himself is accomplished. Scotland has won her independence, thanks to the skill of Bruce, the courage of his men, and the incompetence of King Edward. “From the dust and reek of that burning day Scotland emerges a people, firm in a glorious memory.” [Illustration: =THE BATTLE OF BANNOCKBURN.= (_From the picture by Allan Stewart specially painted for this book._)] [Illustration: The Burghurs of Calais] THE MERCIFUL QUEEN. “_The quality of mercy is not strain’d,—_ _It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven_ _Upon the place beneath: it is twice blest;_ _It blesseth him that gives and him that takes:_ _’Tis mightiest in the mightiest: it becomes_ _The thronèd monarch better than his crown._”