A tournament, the frequent amusement of this warlike age, also took place. This was a martial sport or exercise which the ancient cavaliers used to perform to show their address and bravery. On this occasion, Walter Bisset, a powerful baron, who piqued himself on his skill in his weapons, was foiled by Patrick, Earl of Athole. An old feud which existed between these families embittered the defeat, and Athole was found murdered in his house, which, probably for the purpose of concealment, was set on fire by the assassins. The suspicion of this slaughter--which, even in an age familiar with ferocity, seems to have excited unwonted horror--immediately fell upon the Bissets; and although _Walter_ was the person concerned in the tournament, the popular clamour pointed to _William_, the elder brother, and chief of the family. He was pursued by the nobility, who were incited to vengeance by the Earl of March and David de Hastings, and would have been torn to pieces, had not the interference of the king protected him from the fury of the friends of Athole. Ultimately the Bissets were condemned, their estates forfeited to the crown, and they were ordered to repair to Palestine, and there, for the remaining days of their lives, to pray for the soul of the murdered earl. When we muse on the chivalric and martial sports which distinguished our ancient burgh in former days, and witness the silence and gloomy depopulation which now reign in our streets; when we compare its lofty and formidable castle with its present bare and defenceless walls; when we think of the great maritime and commercial interest carried on, before the Union, between its harbour and Holland, and other foreign countries, and see its present limited coasting trade, we can scarcely help regretting the loss of its ancient grandeur. One cannot help _feeling_ that of this royal residence, where princes feasted and heroes fought--now in the bloody earnest of storm and siege, and now in the games of chivalry, where beauty dealt the prize which valour had won--all is now desolate, all its glory is departed. The mossy ruins of its castle walls only serve to show what their extent and splendour once was, and to impress on the mind of the musing visiter the transitory nature and value of all human possessions, and the true happiness of _those_ who enjoy a humble lot in virtuous contentment.