“Well, the news that the enemy was so near us might not perhaps have been particularly pleasing, had they not been more than balanced by the conviction—­far more precious than a large reinforcement, for in itself it was a host—­the king was recovering.  Yes, scarcely as we dared hope, much less believe it, the disease, which had fairly baffled all the leech’s art, which had hung over our idolized monarch so long, at length showed symptoms of giving way, and there was as great rejoicing in the camp as if neither danger nor misfortune could assail us more; a new spirit sparkled in every eye, as if the awakening lustre in the Bruce’s glance, the still faint, yet thrilling accents of a voice we had feared was hushed forever, had lighted on every heart, and kindled anew their slumbering fire.  One day, Lord Edward, the Earl of Lennox, and a gallant party, were absent scouring the country about half a mile round our entrenchments, and in consequence, one side of our square was more than usually open, but we did not think it signified, for there wore no tidings of the enemy; well, this day the king had called me to him, and bade me relate the particulars of the retreat, which I was proud enough to do, my masters, and which of you would not be, speaking as I did with our gallant sovereign as friend with friend?”

“Aye, and does he not make us all feel this?” burst simultaneously from many voices; “does he not speak, and treat us all as if we were his friends, and not his subjects only?  Thine was a proud task, good Murdoch, but which of us has good King Robert not addressed with kindly words and proffered hand?”

“Right! right!” joyously responded the old man; “still I say that hour was one of the proudest in my life, and an eventful one too for Scotland ere it closed.  King Robert heard me with flashing eye and kindling cheek, and his voice, as he burst forth in high praise and love for his daring brother, sounded almost as strong and thrilling as was its wont in health; just then a struggle was heard without the tent, a scuffle, as of a skirmish, confused voices, clashing of weapons, and war-cries.  Up started the king, with eagle glance and eager tone.  ‘My arms,’ he cried, ‘bring me my arms!  Ha hear ye that?’ and sure enough, ’St. David for De Brechin, and down with the Bruce!’ resounded so close, that it seemed as if but the curtain separated the traitor from his kinsman and his king.  Never saw I the Bruce so fearfully aroused, the rage of the lion was upon him.  ‘Hear ye that?’ he repeated, as, despite my remonstrances, and these of the officers who rushed into the tent, he sprang from the couch, and, with the rapidity of light, assumed his long-neglected armor.  ’The traitorous villain! would he beard me to my teeth?  By the heaven above us, he shall rue this insolence!  Bring me my charger.  Beaten off, say ye?  I doubt it not, my gallant friends; but it is now the Bruce’s turn, his kindred traitors are not far off, and we would try their mettle now.  Nay,