Here they rested, receiving from the host cold, but princely attention. By hurrying posts, daily there came varying tidings of war. At first they heard of the victories of James at Wark, at Etall, and at Ford; and then, that Norham castle had been taken; but later, news was whispered that while King James was dallying the time away with the wily Lady Heron, the army lay inactive. At length they heard the army had made post on the ridge that frowns over the Millfield Plain, and that brave Surrey, with a force from the South, had marched into Northumberland and taken camp. At this, Marmion exclaimed: "'A sorry thing to hide my head In castle, like a fearful maid, When such a field is near! Needs must I see this battle-day: Death to my fame if such a fray Were fought, and Marmion away! The Douglas, too, I wot not why, Hath 'bated of his courtesy: No longer in his halls I'll stay." CHAPTER VII. Each hour brought a different tale. Marmion fretted like the impatient charger that "snuffs the battle from afar." It was true that Douglas had changed in his demeanor, had grown cold and silent. The dejected Clare sought retirement. Courteous she was to Lady Angus, shared in ceaseless prayers for the safe return of Scotch liege and lord, but borne down with sorrow, she loved best to find some lonely spot, turret, tower, or parapet, where she might retire alone to listen to the wailing waters, to hear the sea-bird's cry, to recall her life at the Convent of Whitby, and to regret the loss of the loved garb of the nun. At the command of her kinsman, the Benedictine dress, the hood and veil, so much in harmony with her life, had been denied her, and she had been made to assume the costume of the world. Her sunny locks were again unbound, and rich garments were provided, suited to her rank. Of the holy dress, the cross alone she was permitted to wear,--a golden cross set with rubies; but in her hand she always bore the loved breviary. Pacing back and forth at evening, sick with sorrow, she came suddenly upon a full suit of armor. It lay directly in her path--the targe, the corselet, the helm, the pierced breastplate. She raised her eyes in alarm, and before her stood De Wilton, but so changed it might have been his ghost. The Palmer's dress was thrown aside, the dress of the knight not resumed. He was neither king's noble, nor priest. Not until he had been proven innocent of treason, and redubbed knight, could he honorably wear his spurs.