forced the barrier of waggons, and believed that all was now their own, they were astounded at the apparition of the whole Scottish army advancing upon them from an unexpected quarter, with the honoured Douglas banner of the crowned heart floating over its head. They had thus been wasting their valour upon the scum of the invaders, and the real battle was still to be fought and won! Furious with disappointment, Hotspur drew up his men in new order for the coming onset. Even yet he might be the victor, for his soldiers not only outnumbered the enemy by three to one, but were equal in discipline, and superior in military equipments. It seemed inevitable that the banner of the crowned heart must be thrown down and trodden in the dust, unless the skilful head and mighty arm of its lord could maintain its honours against such a fearful disparity. The combatants closed by the light of an autumnal moon, that shone with an uncertain glimmer upon their mail, and half revealed their movements, as they shifted to and fro in the struggle of life and death. Thus they continued hour after hour, while neither party thought of yielding, although the ground was slippery with blood, and covered with the dead and dying each closed in deadly grapple with his antagonist, that he might make his stroke more sure in the dim changeful moonlight. At length there appeared a wavering among the Scots; they reeled, and began to give back before the weight of superior numbers, when Douglas, finding that he must set his life upon a cast, prepared himself for a final personal effort. He ordered his banner to be advanced, and brandishing in both hands a heavy battle-axe, such as few men could wield, he shouted his war-cry of "A Douglas!" and rushed into the thickest of the press. At every stroke an enemy went down, and a lane was cleared before his onset; but his ardour carried him so far in advance, that he soon found himself unsupported, and three spears bore him to the earth, each inflicting a mortal wound. Some time elapsed before his gallant companions could overtake his onward career. At length the Earl of March, with his brother of Moray, who had entered battle with such haste that he had fought all night without his helmet, and Sir James Lindsay, one of the most stalwart of Scottish knights, cleared their way to the spot, where they found their brave commander dying, while none was beside him but William Lundie, his chaplain, a soldier priest, who had followed his steps through the whole conflict, and now stood ready, lance in hand, beside his master, to defend him in his last moments. Lindsay was the first who recognized the dying Douglas, and stooping down, he asked him how he fared. "But indifferently," replied the earl; "but blessed be God, most of my ancestors have died on fields of battle, and not on beds of down. There is a prophecy in our house, that a dead Douglas shall win a field, and I think that this night it will be accomplished. Conceal my death, raise my banner, shout my war-cry, and revenge my fall." With these words he expired.
In obedience to the dying injunctions of Douglas, his companions concealed the body among the tall fern that grew beside it, raised aloft his standard that was reeling amidst the conflict, and shouted the Douglas war-cry, as if he was still at their head; while the English, who knew that some mighty champion had lately fallen, but were ignorant that it was the Scottish leader, gave back in turn at the sound of his dreaded name. The Scots, who also believed that he was still alive, seconded the fresh onset of their leaders, and advanced with such renewed courage, that the English were at last routed, driven from the field, and dispersed, after their bravest had fallen, or been taken prisoners.
