Nor was all this done more quickly than was required. By and by the signs of the coming procession thickened. The indescribable stir of the air on the approach of crowds of human beings might easily be detected. Then the sounds of horses' feet, succeeded by the reverberations of trumpets, which the heralds and pursuivants began to blow as the town of Melrose came in view. The heraldic ensigns glittered in the rays of an unclouded sun; the gay armour of barons and knights cast their reflections everywhere, carrying the glory of war under the aspects of peace and loyalty. The young prince was seated on horseback, with Angus on the one side, and George Douglas on the other; their horses equipped after the gaudy fashion of the times, which were not yet beyond the era of chivalry, neighing to the sound of the horns, and curveting as if under the very feelings which inspired the riders. The scene was such as might seem the farthest removed from the inspirations of strife. Royalty sat enshrined in peace, to receive the _éclat_ of admiration, and be blessed with the breathings of gratitude. But, quick as a blast of a horn among the hills or the advent of a thunder-clap, the terrific cry of "Bellenden!" was heard, succeeded by the Border hurrah, and the next instant a thousand wild men, with glittering swords in their hands, the terrible battle-axe or the piercing spear, rushed more like a cataract than a torrent on the all-unprepared and utterly-unsuspicious party. In the midst of them was Wat Scott, with his stern face and fierce eye. For an enemy to see it was to tremble, for a warrior to be fired. Taken at once, the Royal party swerved like a surging sea. The prince was cared for, and the Douglas, maddened by the fear of losing their royal prize, and burning with the revenge of an old hatred, flew from place to place, crying, "For the king! for the king!" It was answered by the roar of the now raised Scotts, returned again by the Royalists, and echoed with an energy redoubled by the rising fury of opposition. The pressure of the Borderers increased as their hopes rose, and their repeated hurrahs told of their success amidst the clanging of swords, the heavy fall of the axe, the sharp risp of the lance. Scott was still paramount, and everywhere, pointing, hacking, calling to secure the prince. "The noise of battle hurtled in the air, Horses did neigh, and dying men did groan." At first and for some time the contest had more the appearance of an attack, ill resisted; but it soon ceased to present that aspect, and now it was as if every man closed with every man. The sounds of triumph or hope died away into hard breathings. "With foot to foot, and eye opposed, In dubious strife they darkly closed."