“And the king!” exclaimed the knight of the mask, half springing up in the excitement the old man’s tale had aroused.  “How bore he this day’s wondrous deed—­was not his strength exhausted anew?”

“Aye, what of the king?” repeated many of the soldiers, who had held their very breath while the veteran spoke, and clenched their swords, as if they were joining in the strife he so energetically described.

“The king, my masters,” replied Murdoch, “why, if it could be, he looked yet more the mighty warrior at the close than at the commencement of the work.  We had seen him the first in the charge, in the pursuit; we had marked his white plume waving above all others, where the strife waxed hottest; and when we gathered round him, when the fight was done, he was seated on the ground in truth, and there was the dew of extreme fatigue on his brow—­he had flung aside his helmet—­and his cheek was hotly flushed, and his voice, as he thanked us for our gallant conduct, and bade us return thanks to heaven for this great victory, was somewhat quivering; but for all that, my masters, he looked still the warrior and the king, and his voice grew firmer and louder as he bade us have no fears for him.  He dismissed us with our hearts as full of joy and love for him as of triumph on our humbled foes.”

“No doubt,” responded many voices; “but Buchan, Mowbray, De Brechin—­what came of them—­were they left on the field?”

“They fled, loving their lives better than their honor; they fled, like cowards as they were.  The two first slackened not their speed till they stood on English ground.  De Brechin, ye know, held out Angus as long as he could, and was finally made captive.”

“Aye, and treated with far greater lenity than the villain deserved.  He will never be a Randolph.”

“A Randolph!  Not a footboy in Randolph’s train but is more Randolph than he.  But thou sayest Buchan slackened not rein till he reached English ground; he lingered long enough for yet blacker treachery, if rumor speaks aright.  Was it not said the king’s life was attempted by his orders, and by one of the Comyn’s own followers?”

“Ha!” escaped Sir Amiot’s lips.  “Say they this?” but he evidently had spoken involuntarily, for the momentary agitation which had accompanied the words was instantly and forcibly suppressed.

“Aye, your worship, and it is true,” replied the veteran “It was two nights after the battle.  All the camp was at rest; I was occupied as usual, by my honored watch in my sovereign’s tent.  The king was sleeping soundly, and a strange drowsiness appeared creeping over me too, confusing all my thoughts.  At first I imagined the wind was agitating a certain corner of the tent, and my eyes, half asleep and half wakeful, became fascinated upon it; presently, what seemed a bale of carpets, only doubled up in an extraordinary small space, appeared within the drapery.  It moved; my senses were instantly aroused.  Slowly