Thousands were lost on both sides. But the flower of England was in France, while the flower of Scotland was here; and slain--the king, twelve earls, fifteen lords and chiefs, an archbishop, the French ambassador, and many French captains. You walk back from the Field, and all the world is changed. The green haughs, the green woodlands, seem even in the summer sun to be dun and sere, and those burns which made merry on the outward way--can it be that there are red shadows in their waters? It is not "Marmion" but Jean Elliott's "Flower of the Forest" that lilts through the memory-- "Dule and wae was the order sent our lads to the Border, The English for once by guile won the day; The Flowers of the Forest that foucht aye the foremost, The pride of our land are cauld in the clay. "We'll hear nae mair liltin' at the eve milkin', Women and bairns are heartless and wae; Sighin' and moanin' on ilka green loanin'-- The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away." I know not by what alchemy the Scots are always able to win our sympathy to their historic tragedies, or why upon such a field as Flodden, and many another, the tragedy seems but to have just happened, the loss is as though of yesterday. CHAPTER II SCOTTS-LAND It is possible to enter the Middle Marches from Berwick; in truth, Kelso lies scarcely farther from Flodden than does Berwick. But Flodden is on English soil to-day, and memory is content to let it lie there. These Middle Marches however are so essentially Scottish, the splendour and the romance, the history and the tragedy, that one would fain keep them so, and come upon them as did the kings from David I, or even the Celtic kings before him, who sought refuge from the bleak Scottish north in this smiling land of dales and haughs, of burns and lochs. Not at any moment could life become monotonous even in this realm of romance, since the Border was near, and danger and dispute so imminent, so incessant. Preferably then one goes from Edinburgh (even though never does one go from that city, "mine own romantic town," but with regret; not even finally when one leaves it and knows one will not return till next time) to Melrose; as Scottish kings of history and story have passed before. There was James II going to the siege of Roxburgh, and not returning; there was James IV going to the field of Flodden and not returning; there was James V going to hunt the deer; there was James VI going up to London to be king; Mary Queen on that last journey to the South Countrie; Charles I and Charles II losing and getting a crown; Charles III--let us defy history and call the Bonnie Prince by his title--when he went so splendidly after Prestonpans. [Illustration: JAMES II.]