As the lines were approaching each other, the faithful Lord Lindesay of the Byres rode up to the king, attended by an esquire who led a grey horse of beautiful proportions--one which was deemed unrivalled in Scotland for beauty, strength, and fleetness. "I beg," said he, "that your majesty will accept of this steed from me; should we lose this eventful field--which God and St. Andrew avert--your majesty may fully trust your sacred life to this animal's agility and sureness of foot; for if you can but keep your saddle, my favourite grey will never fail you." "He has been carefully bred," said the Duke of Montrose, "and possesses the fifty-four gifts of a good horse." "Fifty-four, duke?" reiterated the king, stroking the fiery animal as it pressed on the powerful curb, and caracoled from side to side; "on my faith, a goodly number!" "Examine him, please your majesty," continued the handsome young donor, throwing up his umbriere; "he hath a woman's breast, with a lion's courage; the eye of a bull, with the patience of a sheep; the strength of a Spanish mule, with the fleetness of a Scottish deer; and the ears of a wolf! You will find him no cutter of gowans. Keep his head well up, and, by the faith of Lindesay, he will never fail under you!" How fatal a gift this fiery horse proved will be shown in the sequel! CHAPTER XXXIV. THE BATTLE OF SAUCHIEBURN. "The king has come to marshal us, all in his armour drest; And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his gallant crest." MACAULAY. The hostile lines were drawing nearer and more near; the shouts of the wild clansmen of Galloway mingling with the slogans of the Merse-men, who shouted "A Home! a Home!" were borne on the wind across the fertile fields that lay between the approaching columns. A loud report pealed upon the stillness of the sky. It was the Great Lion, a ball from which made a gap in the ranks of the foe; others followed from a green knoll on which the royal culveriniers had posted themselves, but slowly and laboriously, for the gunners of the fifteenth century were somewhat less expert than those of our own day. James gazed fixedly and anxiously at the insurgent bands. He was looking for the prince, his eldest son. "No victory can come to a heart filled with dark forebodings such as mine," said he to Montrose. The Duke's reply was lost in the hollow of his helmet. "No doubt young Rothesay is surrounded by a flattering crowd, all anxious to hail him as _James IV_." "Ah, say not so, sire," said the faithful old peer, with a sigh; "yet such, alas, is perhaps the fate of kings." "The fate of kings! thou thinkest so?--to see their own flesh and blood rise in rebellion up against them," replied James, incoherently; "yet is there not an old proverb--a prophecy--which says--what said it?" Montrose did not reply. "What said it?" repeated James, impatiently.